Some years ago, my wife and I were traveling with another couple, waiting for a flight back to Portland from San Francisco. We arrived early at the airport -- so early, in fact, that the flight before ours hadn't left yet. Near where we were sitting we noticed several people and a large number of suitcases waiting for the earlier flight. I should point out that this was long before airport security restrictions about leaving bags unattended. When it was time for them to board, they walked down the ramp and onto the plane. We thought it strange that they left all the luggage behind. The fellow with whom we were traveling quickly brought this to the attention of the gate agent, and she made sure the bags were quickly loaded onto the plane.
The plane was preparing to leave the gate when two or three couples approached the area where we were seated and began looking in every direction with worried looks on their faces. They seemed to be searching for something. One man in the group looked in our direction and asked, with no small amount of anxiety in his voice: "Did you folks see what happened to the bags that were sitting here?" Our friend said, "Yes, some folks on that flight forgot to take them onto the plane. But don't worry -- we made sure they got loaded on." "Those were OUR bags!" the man yelled.
Fortunately the gate agent was able to get the bags unloaded before the plane left the gate. Obviously our friend felt terrible. Even though he meant well, he learned that good intentions don't always guarantee good results.
There are even times when unforeseen harm comes from the actions of well-meaning people -- like the man who used to drive us to school. When I attended early-morning seminary in the early 1960's, kids in my ward didn't have their own cars. The church meetinghouse where seminary was held was at least two miles from our high school, so our parents organized car pools. But as luck would have it, I had to ride with the worst driver of them all.
He was an older man -- retired. He had no children of his own and just wanted to help out with the carpool. Every other week it was his turn to take me and four other boys to school in his old green and white Dodge. Every ride with that man was a white-knuckle, "e-ticket" experience. His eyesight wasn't so good, and his reflexes were poor. He drove too fast and was often unaware of what was going on around us. Making things even more uncomfortable was the fact that we didn't really know this man. He never spoke. Every time we rode with him we just sat there in silence, hanging onto each other and praying that this stranger would get us to school alive.
Part of the route he took to school was through residential areas. He never looked left or right when approaching unmarked intersections -- just barreled right through them. One day we were sitting at a stop sign, waiting for the oncoming traffic to clear from the left and right. There was a car approaching from the left, and we naturally expected our driver to wait until it passed -- but instead, he stomped on the gas and lunged out in front of the oncoming car. Its driver slammed on the brakes, skidding to avoid us, and our driver just sailed through the intersection as if nothing had happened.
Several blocks later we heard the repeated honking of a horn. Turning around we saw an angry driver honking and motioning for us to pull over. Our driver didn't have a clue that this was even happening, so he just kept on going. Suddenly the angry driver passed our car, cut sharply in front of us and forced our driver to stop. The angry man jumped out, ran back to our car and began to give our driver an earful about how he'd almost caused an accident by pulling out in front of that other car. To which our driver said, not surprisingly, "What other car?"
Shortly after that experience we had our final ride in the green and white Dodge. We had just left the church and were cruising along a residential street. As we approached an unmarked intersection, I saw a shiny red, two-door, 1961 Chevrolet Impala coming from the right. Behind the wheel was a girl I'd seen at school, and another girl was in the passenger seat. The Chevy had the right-of-way, but it was very obvious that our car was going to hit it unless we immediately slowed down. To his credit, our driver did hit the brakes, but not soon enough. The left front of our car hit the left rear of the Chevy -- not by much, but enough to cause the girl to over-correct. Then everything came undone. We sat there wide-eyed and speechless as the rear-end of the Chevy not only slid sideways, but it rose up in the air as if in a slow motion roll -- landing on its top.
The sound of the Chevy landing was chilling. On impact, all that could be seen through its windows was a mass of flying schoolbooks and papers. Our driver sat stone-faced as if in shock. One of the boys began to cry. Someone raced up to a house to get the occupants to phone for the police and an ambulance. A friend and I jumped out and ran to the upside-down car. Pulling open the door, with the top of the window scraping on the street, we called to the girls inside, asking if they were hurt. "I think I'm ok," said the driver, "but I don't know about my friend. She was riding in the front seat and ended up in the back." Note: This was in the days before cars had seat belts, so those girls had been tossed around like rag dolls. Miraculously, neither of them was hurt.
When our parents and church leaders learned of this accident -- and that there'd been other close calls in the green and white Dodge -- let's just say they informed our driver that his services would no longer be required. As I think about that man I remind myself that he had no evil intent. Careless, unobservant, and unskilled behind the wheel -- yes. But not evil. In fact, it could honestly be said of him that he had very good intentions. But good intentions were not good enough. If one or both of those girls had been killed in that accident it would have been very little consolation to their families to hear this man say, "But I meant well."
The plane was preparing to leave the gate when two or three couples approached the area where we were seated and began looking in every direction with worried looks on their faces. They seemed to be searching for something. One man in the group looked in our direction and asked, with no small amount of anxiety in his voice: "Did you folks see what happened to the bags that were sitting here?" Our friend said, "Yes, some folks on that flight forgot to take them onto the plane. But don't worry -- we made sure they got loaded on." "Those were OUR bags!" the man yelled.
Fortunately the gate agent was able to get the bags unloaded before the plane left the gate. Obviously our friend felt terrible. Even though he meant well, he learned that good intentions don't always guarantee good results.
There are even times when unforeseen harm comes from the actions of well-meaning people -- like the man who used to drive us to school. When I attended early-morning seminary in the early 1960's, kids in my ward didn't have their own cars. The church meetinghouse where seminary was held was at least two miles from our high school, so our parents organized car pools. But as luck would have it, I had to ride with the worst driver of them all.
He was an older man -- retired. He had no children of his own and just wanted to help out with the carpool. Every other week it was his turn to take me and four other boys to school in his old green and white Dodge. Every ride with that man was a white-knuckle, "e-ticket" experience. His eyesight wasn't so good, and his reflexes were poor. He drove too fast and was often unaware of what was going on around us. Making things even more uncomfortable was the fact that we didn't really know this man. He never spoke. Every time we rode with him we just sat there in silence, hanging onto each other and praying that this stranger would get us to school alive.
Part of the route he took to school was through residential areas. He never looked left or right when approaching unmarked intersections -- just barreled right through them. One day we were sitting at a stop sign, waiting for the oncoming traffic to clear from the left and right. There was a car approaching from the left, and we naturally expected our driver to wait until it passed -- but instead, he stomped on the gas and lunged out in front of the oncoming car. Its driver slammed on the brakes, skidding to avoid us, and our driver just sailed through the intersection as if nothing had happened.
Several blocks later we heard the repeated honking of a horn. Turning around we saw an angry driver honking and motioning for us to pull over. Our driver didn't have a clue that this was even happening, so he just kept on going. Suddenly the angry driver passed our car, cut sharply in front of us and forced our driver to stop. The angry man jumped out, ran back to our car and began to give our driver an earful about how he'd almost caused an accident by pulling out in front of that other car. To which our driver said, not surprisingly, "What other car?"
Shortly after that experience we had our final ride in the green and white Dodge. We had just left the church and were cruising along a residential street. As we approached an unmarked intersection, I saw a shiny red, two-door, 1961 Chevrolet Impala coming from the right. Behind the wheel was a girl I'd seen at school, and another girl was in the passenger seat. The Chevy had the right-of-way, but it was very obvious that our car was going to hit it unless we immediately slowed down. To his credit, our driver did hit the brakes, but not soon enough. The left front of our car hit the left rear of the Chevy -- not by much, but enough to cause the girl to over-correct. Then everything came undone. We sat there wide-eyed and speechless as the rear-end of the Chevy not only slid sideways, but it rose up in the air as if in a slow motion roll -- landing on its top.
The sound of the Chevy landing was chilling. On impact, all that could be seen through its windows was a mass of flying schoolbooks and papers. Our driver sat stone-faced as if in shock. One of the boys began to cry. Someone raced up to a house to get the occupants to phone for the police and an ambulance. A friend and I jumped out and ran to the upside-down car. Pulling open the door, with the top of the window scraping on the street, we called to the girls inside, asking if they were hurt. "I think I'm ok," said the driver, "but I don't know about my friend. She was riding in the front seat and ended up in the back." Note: This was in the days before cars had seat belts, so those girls had been tossed around like rag dolls. Miraculously, neither of them was hurt.
When our parents and church leaders learned of this accident -- and that there'd been other close calls in the green and white Dodge -- let's just say they informed our driver that his services would no longer be required. As I think about that man I remind myself that he had no evil intent. Careless, unobservant, and unskilled behind the wheel -- yes. But not evil. In fact, it could honestly be said of him that he had very good intentions. But good intentions were not good enough. If one or both of those girls had been killed in that accident it would have been very little consolation to their families to hear this man say, "But I meant well."
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