Correct or corrected?
Wide-open spaces. It’s a wonderful thing. I can look left, right, forward, and behind without a building or person in sight. Rural America offers this, and for some it’s paradise, but for others it’s welcome to Hicksville, population boring. I have a good friend who sees the latter. He fancies big cities and a faster pace. One place in particular that was at the top of his bucket list was New York City. My hometown of McKee, Ky, has a grand total of 800-plus residents. That’s like comparing a grain of sand to the entire beach. As you can imagine, when he asked me to go with him to visit the most populous city in all of America, I told him he was crazy. Maybe I’m the insane one, because I went anyway.
The drive alone reaffirmed my love for small towns. From departure to arrival, we paid $115 in tolls and fees alone. Turnpike tolls here, tunnel tolls there, and parking fees everywhere. It reminded me of my maiden voyage to the Pacific Coast. A coworker at the time recommended this famous donut shop in Portland, Oregon. It was to be a nice little addition to my trip, requiring only a small detour. The maple syrup icing topped with a strip of bacon was calling my name. Worth the splurge. I expected the price to be a little more than I would pay otherwise, but it was a one-time deal. One donut and $40 later, Portland was on my no-fly list. There were additional expenses I hadn’t factored in. $25 to park in some random lot that wasn’t even near the shop, and around $10 to use a bathroom on my way back to the car. Back home, nature provides endless opportunities to relieve oneself for free, and what’s this paying to park business? The experience was tainted, so I skedaddled. Fast forward to this New York excursion, and it’s déjà vu. I arrived in New York with a sour taste in my mouth. It was part Portland and part concern about other charges that would be levied against us, yielding nothing to show. We were past the point of no return, so off we went.
There was a lot of ground to cover in the daylight we had left, and walking was out of the question. My buddy had a foot condition that made it painful to move at any speed. The quickest way to make him mad was for me to tell him it was a made-up diagnosis doctors used for lazy people. Now I know that’s not true, but the comment always elicited a great response. This dilemma put us in a rock-and-a-hard-place situation, because I completely and utterly refused to take a taxi. We decided on bicycle rentals. It was an efficient way to get around the city that afforded the freedom of walking, and it was reasonably priced, especially since he agreed to pay for them. It actually turned out to be faster than on foot, as we often sped past gridlocked vehicles.
We navigated through the city, checking off many of the spots on his list. The Twin Towers memorial was a difficult stop. The day is permanently etched in my brain, and I was hundreds of miles away when the news feed hit. This tribute honored people who were right in the thick of it, those who experienced some of the worst our country has seen. I couldn’t take a picture. I kept silent until it was time to go.
The highlight of the trip for me was lunchtime. My buddy and I may not agree on some things, but there was no question about what was on the menu. New York-style pizza. We scoped out a couple of places until we settled on one. We took our seats at an outdoor table, and the pizza was served. It was massive. Possibly the largest in all the land. A couple sat down at the table next to us and commented on our enormous pizza for just two people. Being big eaters, the comment went in one ear and out the other. We dug in, piece by piece, by piece. The meal slowly began to disappear, but then an unusual event occurred, something that would bring shame to my large-appetite family name. Neither of us wanted the last piece. Not because it wasn’t good. It was delicious. The sheer volume had us busting at the seams. Being poor-bred people, we were raised to waste not, want not, so there was no way we were going to discard this delicacy. The problem was solved in the way so many other important decisions are resolved. Rock, paper, scissors, with the loser eating the last piece. In hindsight, our neighbors knew what they were talking about.
Wait a minute. I’ve gotten ahead of myself here. Food tends to do that to me. On the way to the restaurant, we left Manhattan and headed for Brooklyn. On our bikes, we bobbed and weaved through traffic, making our way to the next borough. If memory serves, we crossed the East River via the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before a major near miss. I was leading our two-bike convoy and used road signs to guide us to the pedestrian crossing. It was all going according to plan until the last stretch, when the traditional signs were replaced with sidewalk markers. The last eye-level instruction showed an up-and-left arrow. On the concrete, I followed the forward indicators, waiting for the left-turn marker. The foot traffic began to build, obscuring the ground. We had only buildings to our left, so I continued straight ahead. Our path eventually came to a T-intersection, but I still couldn’t find any other directions. We had two options left, separated by a fence. Before the fence, it appeared to be a pedestrian-only area with shops and such. On the other side, a small alley with no traffic. We couldn’t verify which way led to the bridge from our vantage point, so I opted for the alley. A few minutes in, we heard an angry New Yorker screaming at us as he drove by. I don’t know everything he said, and maybe that’s for the best, but I did catch something very important. ‘Wrong way!!!’ Turns out we were on the vehicle ramp to the bridge.
Without proper justification, I hate being corrected. There are times when I will fight to the bitter end, clinging to my incorrect thinking. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of being right, a desire to avoid the discomfort that sometimes accompanies corrections, the embarrassment of being wrong, or the concern about how many people I have led astray; either way, it can be tough for someone to call me out on something. Defenses go up, and I look for anything to validate my current position. My question is, why? If some of my ‘rights’ are actually wrong, shouldn’t I seek correction? The Bible tells us, “He who keeps instruction is in the way of life, But he who refuses correction goes astray.” (Proverbs 10:17 NKJV) The rebuke the angry New Yorker so politely provided may have saved our lives. This is the case with God’s reproofs. They are meant for my benefit, not detriment, but I stubbornly avoid them. Maybe if I can find wisdom, I will better see the advantages of correction and embrace them rather than shun them.
Do you seek to be correct, or do you accept correction when necessary?
