(Article contributed by Sarah Richmond. Read more about all of our writers here.)

A Derailed Sunday Morning

Ever notice how some catastrophes arise out of the slightest missteps?

My family shared such an experience one Sunday morning. A snooze button pressed just once more, a duel of wills over a child’s breakfast, a gas tank left on “E,” and  without warning or purpose, it all began to unravel.

Frazzled and late, we pushed and huffed and stomped out the door to church. Yes, church. On that particular day we had to drive two cars as one of us was committed to serve during second service, so he in the vehicle on fumes and me in with the now-sniffling, post-tantrum child, threw gears in reverse away from home--fully aware of the shaky, uneven tracks beneath us.

It was a 17-minute drive from our driveway to church parking lot, and it is safe to say I was stewing over the morning’s events for 15.5 of those minutes.

I knew, mind you, that at some level under the frustration, the path to peace-- the way back onto steady track--lay well within my own hands. Hands that at the moment were clenched tight and tense around the driver's wheel, as if straining to steer much more than the SUV I navigated. Hands that could so quickly pull away from another’s, in a fit of self-righteous animosity. As thoughts flurried about my mind, How did we get here? This is not how today was meant to go, the simple question arose from the mess:

What is more important? Happiness...or... being right?

Sigh. My grip loosened ever so slightly.

"Needing" To Be Right

Over the years, I'd faced many derailments in the name of being right, being heard, being without fault. This particular Sunday morning, that 17-minute drive, was no diferent. Choose to brood and blame my husband and/or my kids for this latest less than perfect scenario. Or, release those tightened fists and allow my pride to fall through open fingers, choosing instead joy.

Seeing the situation in type, as I write this post, the choice isn’t even really a choice, but we all know the living, breathing story is hardly ever as clear. Why is that? How is this ever even a struggle to decide – bitterness or happiness? When has choosing to be right ever made me happier? How much laughter has indignation ushered unto my lips? Where is joy when the path chosen is wide enough only for one and the self-righteousness I carry with me?

Do I want to be happy, or do I want to be right?  

And Then We Arrived

The church in view around the bend, my decision settled. Still tardy for service, we unloaded quickly and little legs scurried to keep my pace. I didn't say much to their sweet faces, but the few words of forgiveness we exchanged were enough as we jogged across the asphalt to the open doors. I knew by way of the tender eyes and loving grip around my arm, they have already forgotten, their hearts too small yet to hang on to the ugly.

Having stopped in route to remedy the empty gas tank, the final passenger to our train rushed in behind as the kids were checking into their classes. “I’ll take them,” he offered. “You go find us seats.” No time to tell him of the 17-minutes or of my choice.

An usher led me to two seats up front, and settling in, I closed my eyes. I whispered prayer. Again, I chose. He slipped in from the aisle next to me and exhaled, having survived the last 45-minutes of rocky terrain. And just as derailments are born from the smallest of missteps, it is the simplest of gestures that can steer us back to safety.

This day, I chose joy.

Slipping my arm through his, I felt pride fall to the floor below. We exchanged looks and a sentence, and again it was enough. Bitterness and resentment denied in place of humility and submission to one another. And by choosing joy, joy is found.  We went on to enjoy one of the most beautiful days our family has ever shared. The impact of a simple acknowledgement, apology and act of surrender hit me that afternoon as we watched the kids run and play at our favorite picnic spot. From my place on a quilt in the middle of giggles and conversation with my love, I saw clearly how the day could have gone if history had repeated itself and love was left out in the cold while being “right” became the path chosen.

That moment, that gift of a day would have been wasted, and happiness would have been passed over once more. Isn’t every day the opportunity to choose? Isn’t every situation, circumstance, trial, a chance for us to make the choice for joy? I know myself well enough not to think there are no more derailments in my path, but I can’t help but believe the effect of joy chosen time after time strengthens the very tracks beneath us, lowering risk for catastrophe, fueling us to keep on rolling.

Photo Credit: Joe Jessup

Originally Published 1/29/2016