“Shut up!” Norman shouted one day when a statement toward him turned cruel. “You’re all brats!”

I sank lower in my desk chair. My private school didn’t offer driver’s education, so I sat in a community school classroom instead. I was shy and knew no one there. I just wanted to get through the required classes, get my license and literally drive away. During each class, I would watch the clock and wonder why an older guy like Norman would voluntarily get inside a car with a pre-licensed teen and spend two hours shouting things like, “No! Your other left!” or “You’d better move, because that tree certainly isn’t!”

At first I felt sorry for Norman. But weeks later when the class work was over and the actual driving instruction began, I was only sorry for myself. Out of all the driving instructors at the school, I was paired with Norman. Even worse, my school and extracurricular schedule allowed only for Saturday driving lessons with Norman.

Behind the Wheel On the first Saturday I pulled back the lace curtains hanging from the living room windows. Mom stood behind me, both of us watching for the student driver car.

I plopped onto our couch and whimpered dramatically.

“Mom, I’d rather just not get my license,” I complained.

“He can’t be that bad, Kate,” she responded.

An impatient honk came from our driveway.

“Wanna bet?” I questioned with raised eyebrows. I scrambled for my purse and ran out the door. Norman had already moved to the passenger’s seat. A guy I recognized from class sat in the back.

“Hi. I’m Kate,” I said.

The guy nodded his head in an upward motion. Norman grumbled a quick hello before telling me to pull out and drive. I listened as the guy in the backseat gave me directions to his house. He had to cut his lesson short, because he had track practice. This meant I would spend my hour driving alone with Norman.

I pulled into the driveway, and the boy got out.

“OK. Let’s go,” Norman said, breaking the tomb-like silence with the first words he had uttered since leaving my house.

I was scared. I didn’t want him to yell at me.

Keep your hands at 10 and 2, I repeated to myself. Don’t give him a reason to get mad. Don’t cry. You’ll be fine.

I wanted to alternate each hand off the wheel and wipe the sweat onto my jeans. I wasn’t nervous about driving. My dad had given me mini-lessons already. It was Norman who caused my sweat.

Saturday Drive
“So, Kate, right?” he asked. I nodded and pressed on the gas pedal when the traffic light turned green.

“Your file says you go to that Christian school,” Norman said, this time with a little more emotion. “Turn left here.”

My nod answered both statements. Then there was silence again. Maybe he wants me to elaborate? Say something about the school? Norman stared straight ahead.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I’m a freshman and really like the school.”

“That’s good.” Norman moved one hand to the car’s radio and began pressing buttons, searching for a specific station.

The sound of a cheering crowd came through the car speakers. Norman cursed under his breath. “The game’s already started. Do you like baseball?”

I immediately recognized the radio announcer’s voice and the players’ names tossed around. I smiled. I glanced over at Norman, shocked that we would have anything to talk about, much less something in common.

“Are you kidding?” I said, laughing, “I love baseball. The Cubbies are my team!”

Now Norman looked confused. He smiled before saying, “Mine, too. I knew you were a good kid.”

He began to sputter baseball stats, most flying right over my head. While he rambled, I actually looked at him for the first time. I noticed the physical features that fear had somehow kept me from seeing earlier. The man had thick, full, pure-white hair. He was tall. His skin was wrinkled and tan. His tough eyes seemed lighter. Hidden behind a gruff and manly exterior was a boy who loved baseball. What else does Norman care about? I wondered.

Second Impression
The first driving lesson was one-hour long. As I drove toward my home, I was amazed that the hour had seemed to pass so rapidly.

The second driving lesson was two-hours long. The guy we had dropped off a week before had switched driving days. Norman now scheduled me for two-hour sessions so I would complete the class faster and our baseball games would not be interrupted.

My parents were amazed that I actually looked forward to Saturday drives and Radio Cubs games with Norman. Each lesson went quickly. I remember driving but very little about where I drove.

All was well until the second-to-last lesson. Norman was very quiet. The lesson took place during the evening. It was already dark outside, and I was driving toward my house.

“Turn in here,” Norman stated dryly. I pulled into a Walgreen’s parking lot, assuming I would practice parking again. Instead, Norman pointed toward the store’s pick-up window.

“I need to get something.”

“OK,” I responded, my tone revealing my confusion.

Norman flipped through his wallet. He handed me a few bills and then leaned forward in his seat to talk with the pharmacist. Norman stated his last name. Moments later, I exchanged cash for a white paper bag.

What’s going on? I wondered. I’m probably helping deal drugs. Oh, man! My mom’s going to kill me!

I cleared my throat and pulled away from the window and toward home.

“What’s in the bag, Norman?” I asked, not excepting the response he gave.

“It’s medicine for my wife. She has cancer, and she’s dying.”

I was shocked. No words were coming. I continued driving while listening to Norman choke on each word. He was crying.

“I’ve been a good man all my life. I’ve only loved one woman. I’ve provided for my family. But life is stabbing me in the back.”

Norman cursed and put his hands over his face.

I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled, but no words followed. What was I supposed to say?

God, I kind of need You right now. My crazy driving instructor is crying, and I really wasn’t expecting this. Help!

Within seconds I knew what I should do. Norman needed to hear about Christ. But I wasn’t willing to make a crying man feel even worse. What if he got angry? We never talked about God. The soft voice whispering in my head was louder now.

Tell Norman about me, Kate. He’s not going to be mad. He needs to hear it. He’s tried everything else.

No, God. I responded. I just can’t. The words aren’t coming out. I’m speechless, literally tongue-tied.

Kate . . .

I can’t, God. I’m so sorry.

I turned into my driveway, doubting that God wanted me to share salvation’s peace with Norman. Norman wiped his face and cleared his throat before saying, “Have a good night. I’ll see you next week for the last lesson.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” I commented as I walked backward before turning toward my house as Norman got in the driver’s side.

Regret
I ran into the house and past Mom’s questions about the day’s lesson. I was too embarrassed and too ashamed to admit that I was a terrible excuse for a Christian witness. I had grown up in a Christian home and had even led my grandma to Christ before she died. Why was this so hard?

I paced inside my bedroom as statements I could have said came flooding forward. I could have said so much. What happened?

The following Saturday, I would be ready if Norman brought up the subject. Saturday came. I drove for two hours. Once again, I found myself pulling into my driveway, this time with the strong likelihood that I wouldn’t see Norman again. Putting the car in park, I unbuckled my seatbelt and grabbed my purse. I turned to open my car door and saw Norman was already standing outside.

I got out and stood beside him. Norman put out his wrinkled hand to shake mine. Then he covered my hand with his other and held it as he spoke.

“It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you, Kate. You’re not like all those other kids. I know you’re shy, but that’s not it. There’s something different about you. What is it?”

My heartbeat quickened. This is it. I need to say something. I need to tell him the reason that I’m different is because I know Christ. Come on, Kate. Say it!

“Oh,” I answered with an uncomfortable laugh. “You want to know the reason why I’m different?”

Norman nodded. He had a defeated and desperate look in his eyes. He was searching.

“Well, the reason I’m different is because I’m . . . well, really mature for my age.”

When my words came out, I wanted to die.

Norman looked hurt. “That’s the reason. That’s why you are the way you are?”

“Yes,” I answered more confident this time. “I’m really mature.”

Norman squeezed my hands a bit tighter before letting go. “Kate, it’s been a pleasure.”

As Norman got into the car, I battled tears. “For me, too,” I responded.

I couldn’t watch Norman leave. I ran into my house, but this time, straight into Mom’s arms. I was crying. We sat on the living room couch, and she held me while I told the story, desperately wanting to change the ending.

One week later, Dad drove me to the driver’s education building. I walked into Norman’s classroom, where new students were already uninterested and loud. Norman just stared at me when I set homemade chocolate chip cookies and a card on his desk and left as quickly as I had come.

Mom and I made the cookies. The card I wrote was an apology for not telling Norman about the hope and difference inside me. I wrote that I wasn’t better than anyone else. I was saved by Christ. Norman could be, too. I included my contact information if Norman had questions.

Are You Ready?
I never saw or heard from Norman. A month after the cookies and card, I called the driving school and asked about Norman. He had quit a few weeks before and hadn’t told anyone where he was going.

It has been five years, and I still pray for Norman and his wife. I realize that even though my actions showed that I had a relationship with Christ, my verbal silence told a different story.

I asked God to forgive me. I haven’t made the same mistake again. Will Norman be in heaven? I don’t know. What I do know is that God can use my backwards how-to story because I’m not the only girl who has missed opportunities to share her faith.

And God can use you, too. Are you ready to share your story?