I guess you could say that I’ve been practicing “The Secret” for the last couple months. Kind of.

I’d been meaning to watch/read/experience the “magic” for probably almost a year now, and also been putting it off, putting it off, blah blah. But when I flew back to Colorado for Gabe’s wedding in April, in a stroke of brilliance (or habit), I took my blessed MacBook on the plane, and decided to buck up and watch the damn thing.

Despite the apparent torture required to catalyze my viewing, I really did enjoy it. It was inspirational and empowering, if not occasionally hokey.

So, when I arrived back at LAX, Allison and I got into one of those little deathtraps they call “airport shuttles” so we could get back to the parking lot where we left our car. We lugged our borderline-weight-limit Samsonite up both little shuttle stairs and heaved it onto the storage shelving. On my way in, I noticed that Jesus was going to be our driver. Literally.

Of course, he was a hispanic gentleman — Hey-soos — but as I normally feel just a little scared for my freakin’ life when circling the Los Angeles airport (if you’ve ever done it, you know what I mean — it’s like a little taste of Mexico City, or San Francisco), I instantly felt a little better knowing that the Savior would be my driver that day.

But Jesus’ driving: not so good.

He screamed around corners, scraping bumpers and inciting all sorts of hostile honking. He ran red lights and stopped abruptly, causing baggage to fly angrily off the rack.

With my newfound Secret, I, of course, was “attracting” safety. Pure, unadulterated safety. I caught the gaze of the middle-aged business-suited gentlemen across from me, and knew he was thinking the same thing I was: “Sorry I didn’t learn your name before we both died in a horrific shuttle crash.”

Things I never thought I’d say: “Man, Jesus needs to go to driving school.”

But I made it out alive… guess The Secret works.

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