the man at the gas station

Already rattled from a one-hour detour on I-77 in Virginia, I pulled into a station to fill up. Behind me, an older man eyed me as he filled his van. Maybe he thought I'd backed up too close. My son Dan, who had given me detour directions by phone, called to check on me.

I continued to talk and pump gas. Then. The man roared up to me, spewing expletives. "Can you get off that *%#@ cell phone while I pull away, before you blow us both up? There's a BIG SIGN right there warning you not to talk on a phone while pumping gas! Thirty-two women have been blown up doing that!"

Stunned, I'm not one to just to take it. I walked to his van, and looked right at him.

"Sir, I appreciate your concern, but you could be alot more polite. There's no need to yell."

#$%&* he fumed as he pulled away.

A minute too late, I wish I'd walked over to the building and awaited his wife, exiting the restroom. I would have said, "is he your husband? Well I sure hope he speaks more respectfully to you than he did to me. Have a good day."

Instead I stood, dazed and furious.

I was really, really peeved. The BIG SIGN was small and hidden. I vaguely remember hearing warnings about cell phones at gas pumps. But really. A kinder, gentler approach would have sufficed.

I was furious, in fact, the rest of the drive to Charlotte. Then, before eating lunch with Dan and Jenny, she simply prayed: "Lord, soften the heart of the man at the gas station."

Had I thought to pray? No, my bruised ego got in the way of a prayerful attitude. My job isn't to set things right nor even to be right. It's to be Jesus to those who desperately need him. And that man must be filled with hurt for it to spill out so easily onto a complete stranger.

But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Matthew 5:44