T is for Traffic Court

Continuing in this A-Z Challenge (which has been good, but I'll be glad to get back to "normal" blogging about whatever)...

I remember getting my first traffic ticket ever. The year was 2004 and I was pulled over on the way home from an exciting English class and apparently wasn't watching my speed. Normally I'm very cautious.

When the cop pulled me over, he told me I was doing 42 in a 30. I didn't argue; it's easy to go that fast on any road, but particularly a road with so many hills. I signed the ticket dutifully, my nerves keeping me from reading anything more than the big, fat $75 violation fee.

When I got home and calmed myself , I read the details. There, in small scribble from the officer's hand, was a figure 8 made dark over the "2" in 42. What? He told me 42. The kids who were with me remember he said 42. He had changed it to 48 when he went back to his car to write it up!

That sunuvva*b* , I thought. He falsely accused me! To do 12 miles an hour over the posted speed limit was wrong of me, but not a reckless speed considering the stretch of road I was on.
But I could not have, in good conscience, done 18 over without feeling like a bad mother at the wheel.

What was the cop thinking? What would make him jack up the speed on paper?

For the six weeks it took waiting till my court date, I wrangled with the injustice of it. Found myself cursing the police officer several times in my spirit. Hating him. First, he had ruined my perfect driving record. Second, he had embarrassed me in front of my kids. But worst of all, he had falsely accused me. He had no reason or right to cross out 42 and write 48 in its place.

When we got to court, my case was one of about twenty, mostly adolescent male speeders who barely had peach fuzz, let alone a high school diploma. There I was, a 40 year old mother of four, "on trial" (or so it felt to me) after 24 years of good driving. The judge called my name and I took my place about fifteen feet from the police officer, and was asked if I had anything to add what the officer said (that I was doing 48 in a 30 and that I was cooperative at the scene). I added that I was guilty of speeding, but not for doing 18 over the limit. She reduced my fine and court costs down about $53,
but didn't really "take sides."

Looking back, I see how wrong I was about almost everything. First, the cop didn't ruin my perfect driving record. I did. And it was never perfect before God! Second, he didn't embarrass me in front of my kids. My actions made me feel embarrassed for getting caught. Third, I honestly could have been doing 48 in a 30 (though to this day I doubt it with all my heart) and maybe the cop meant to say 48, not 42, when he came to my window. Either way, I was guilty of speeding. Period.

I took my paperwork to the cashier after stopping at the water fountain for a long drink after all that sweating!

As a Christian this situation makes me think of Jesus. Falsely accused. But he truly had done no wrong. Nothing. Nada. And he did not curse his accusers; he forgave them. He did not open his mouth against his torturers; he took the punishment handed down from the Judge, his own Father.
His fine was not reduced. He drank the entire cup of wrath so that I could drink the full cup of blessing.

Hallelujah! What mercy!