A cold October sunrise on Utah lake substitutes for the Sea of Galilee in a series of films I’m directing on the life of Christ.
I was teaching my sixteen-year-old daughter how to drive. The storm was gathering outside, and inside, our car. I wasn’t so much afraid for my life, as I was for hers. She didn’t seem to notice. It was all good.
“Pull over,” I said.
“Why?” It was her favorite question.
“Because I don’t want to die today.”
“Come on, Dad. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Just pull over.”
My knuckles were white. My feet were pressed against the floor boards. I opened the door, got out of the car and took a deep breath. That’s when I could smell it, the rain, on a gentle breeze. I could see it coming. I knew it was going to be big, the storm. I breathed it in. I let it go. I felt a drop and grabbed my camera. The picture kept the storm from coming.
“You’re doing fine,” I said. “Let’s go home before the rain hits.”
She smiled and pull out.
“Don’t forget to signal,” I said, my feet pressing firmly on the invisible brakes.