We live in a golf-cart community in South Florida, where the little “Flintstone” like vehicles are the preferred way to run to pickleball, golf, grab dinner, or just cruise the town squares. It’s part of the lifestyle we enjoy and when close friends came to visit, we made sure to provide them with their own golf-cart to fully experience it. One sunny afternoon we were headed to lunch, with my wife and I in the lead, our friends right behind. A perfect parking spot opened up right in front of the restaurant. I stopped, flipped on my turn signal, and waited for the car beside us to pass so both carts could slip in together.
The driver of that car—a flashy convertible with the top down—had other ideas. He slammed on his brakes, laid on the horn, and started gesturing wildly. My wife gave him a slight wave and called out, “We see you! We’re just waiting for you to go by.” His reply was instant and venomous: “I will run your ass over.”
Without missing a beat, I leaned across my wife, looked him dead in the eye, and told him—in considerably more colorful language—to go make love to himself. To make matters worse, there is a sign on the back of our golf-cart that reads “EnjoyingHisPresence.com.
He sped off. We parked. And the wife of our visiting friends turned to me with wide eyes and asked, “Did you really just say that?”
I assured her she had heard correctly. You could almost see the question forming on her face: How does a guy who loves Jesus talk like that?
To be honest, I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse in the moment. That surprised me more than the incident itself. I kept waiting for the wave of guilt to hit—the familiar Holy-Spirit conviction that usually follows when my mouth gets ahead of my sanctification. It never came. Instead, a different question crept in: Is the Holy Spirit still with me? If I could snap at a stranger and feel zero regret, had I somehow quenched the Spirit? Was my heart harder than I realized?
My wife has a favorite line about me: “You can overthink a left-hand turn.” She was right again. I replayed the scene for days. The devil, ever opportunistic, used those replays to sow doubt. See? You have not really changed. A real Christian wouldn’t talk like that. Maybe your faith is all show.
Then, quietly and kindly, the Holy Spirit spoke—not in thunder, but in a gentle manner asking a question that settled my soul:
“During Jesus’ three-year ministry, do you really think not one of the apostles ever had a moment like that speaking similar words to a Pharisee or Sadducee?”
The question stopped me cold. Of course, they did. Peter, James, and John were fishermen—rough, impulsive, opinionated men. They argued about who was the greatest right in front of Jesus. Peter drew a sword in the garden. They didn’t always respond with halo-polished grace. They were still learning, still being transformed.
That’s when the fog lifted. I wasn’t being asked to pretend I hadn’t spoken harshly. I was being invited to remember something far more important: I am not Jesus. He is fully God and fully man—sinless, perfect in every response. I am not. I never will be on this side of glory.
There’s a popular Christian acronym: WWJD — “What Would Jesus Do?” It’s a good question, and a helpful guardrail. But it can also become a crushing weight if we forget the rest of the story.
Jesus could flip tables in the temple and call religious hypocrites a “brood of vipers” because He is the sinless Son of God. I cannot. I can strive to imitate Him, but I will never be Him. My best efforts at Christ-likeness will always be filtered through a heart that is still being redeemed.
So how do we walk with Christ when we keep defaulting to our old nature? The short answer is: we don’t—not in our own strength. We do it only by the power and daily ministry of the Holy Spirit.
Even my pastor admits this. He’s one of the godliest men I know, yet he’ll confess that his sanctification sometimes takes a hit when he’s stuck behind someone driving exactly the speed limit in the left lane on I-95. We all have our triggers. The convertible guy was mine that day.
Not long after the incident, I was in our weekly Bible study when a brother—who happens to be a recovering alcoholic—gave me language I’ve been carrying ever since. “An alcoholic is never cured,” he said. “He’s always an alcoholic. But he’s a recovering one, living one day at a time under grace.” Then he looked around the room and added, “Same with us. A Christian will always be a sinner. We are never cured of our sinful nature this side of heaven. But we are forgiven. Daily. Completely.”
That truth lands like cool water on a hot day.
Ephesians 5 puts it this way. Paul writes:
“For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth) and find out what pleases the Lord.” – Ephesians 5:8-10, NIV
He doesn’t say, “Try really hard to manufacture light.” He says we are light—because of Christ. Our job is to walk in it. Sometimes that walk looks like patience in traffic. Sometimes it looks like owning our failures, confessing them, and receiving fresh mercy instead of spiraling into self-condemnation.
The enemy loves to pounce the moment we stumble. He loves to sow just enough doubt to disqualify us. But the Holy Spirit does the opposite. He reminds us of our identity, not our failure. He points us back to the cross, where every sharp tongue and impatient heart was already nailed.
I still wish I had responded differently that afternoon. I wish my words had been seasoned with grace. But I’m no longer paralyzed by the moment. I’ve learned something precious: God’s acceptance of me isn’t based on my flawless performance behind the wheel of a golf cart. It’s based on Jesus’ flawless performance on the cross.
So if you’re a believer who occasionally says something you later regret—if you, like me, can overthink a left-hand turn and still wonder if the Spirit has left you—hear this: He hasn’t. He’s still there, still convicting, still comforting, still transforming. Our sinful nature doesn’t get the last word. Grace does.
Walk as children of light today. Not perfectly, but dependently. And when you trip—and you will—don’t let the devil convince you the journey is over. Let the Holy Spirit pick you up, dust you off, and remind you who you are because you know who He is. You belong to Him.
Because in the end, the Christian life isn’t about pretending we never snap at a rude driver. It’s about knowing that even when we do, the blood of Jesus still covers us, the Spirit still indwells us, and the Father still calls us His beloved children.
If you are a non-believer and you have read this far, I respectfully ask that you give God a chance, turn toward Him, and be filled with His light. Begin your journey as a child of His light.
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