King's Corner: Before The Headlights

I escaped a head-on collision by the narrowest of margins four years ago.

Back then, Hwy 50 past Silver Springs toward Fallon was a worn strip of asphalt—one lane each direction, no margin for error. Near misses were common. Accidents were no surprise.

It is much improved now.

But it wasn’t then.

Before sunrise, I left my dad, Mark King, sleeping and headed toward Fallon. Just past the roundabout, the highway narrowed to that unforgiving stretch.

Headlights appeared ahead as we both closed in at 65 miles per hour. Without warning, the car swerved into my lane. I swerved into hers, the mirrors nearly kissing as we passed at full speed.

There was no time to think.
No time to pray.
No time to calculate.

Just reflex.

She shot off the road before the soft earth brought her to a stop. I couldn’t believe how close it had been. My hands were steady on the wheel, but I could feel my pulse in my throat.

I turned around.

A teenage girl stood outside her car, sobbing and shaking. She had drifted off the shoulder, overcorrected, and crossed directly into my path. She’d seen my headlights fill her windshield and thought, This is it.

I would have thought the same if there’d been any time to think.

My first reaction, turning back toward her car, was anger. Who drives like that? Who puts someone else in danger before sunrise on an empty highway?

Then I saw her.

Young. Shaking. Terrified.

She hadn’t been reckless. She had likely slipped into a micro-sleep, caught the shoulder, overcorrected, and suddenly faced what she thought were her final seconds.

Anger gave way to something else.

Shock can turn to anger—or to compassion.

It would have been easy to shout. Easy to scold.

Instead, she needed someone steady.

We called her grandma in Silver Springs. I helped move the car safely to the side and stayed until her breathing slowed and her hands steadied. When her grandma arrived, I quietly left.

A few miles down the road I pulled over to inspect my bumper. There was barely a dent—just a streak of blue-green paint from her car. Later, the paint shop suggested I buy a lottery ticket.

That same afternoon, another accident on that same stretch of road claimed a life.

Fortunately, not ours.

There are moments in life when there is no margin for error. No warning. No rehearsal. Just a split second to act. Everything up to that point has either prepared you—or it hasn’t.

Six months earlier, my step-mum, Luanne, had faced her own moment with no margin for error. The surgery was risky. The odds weren’t in her favor. Dad never considered the alternative. They had survived everything together—and still would.

Then the hospital called.

She was gone.

One day she was here—organizing, laughing, navigating life in her determined way. The next, the house felt hollow.

Dad’s vision had deteriorated to the point he couldn’t drive, so I moved in. The practical needs were obvious—but the emotional weight was heavier.

I took her Chrysler Pacifica in to have the dents pulled from the corners. We used to joke that she practiced “Parking by Braille.” There was a stop sign near our house that Dad bent back into shape four separate times before finally replacing it. She rarely missed that one.

Luanne had narcolepsy. More than once, Dad had to grab the wheel when she drifted off mid-sentence. He loved her deeply—but he never entirely relaxed in the passenger seat.

After she passed, he seemed smaller. Quieter. The strong, adventurous man I’d known my whole life appeared to fold inward.

Until one afternoon I said, “I lost the bet.”

“What bet?”

“We were all running a pool on which of you would go first.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “So which way did you bet?”

“I bet you’d go together—with her driving.”

There was a split second of silence.

Then he roared with laughter.

“That would have been my bet too!”

And in that laugh, I heard him again—not denial, not avoidance, but resilience. The man who had faced war, risk, reinvention, and loss surfaced once more. The grip of grief loosened. Hope edged back into the room.

And he was more comfortable as a passenger when I was driving her van. Like I was on that morning while he slept at home.

If I hadn’t come back when I did, what would he have done?
If that teenage girl hadn’t made it home, what would her family have faced?

Fortunately, I swerved.
Thank God, the other lane was empty.

And so we were both given more time with the people who love us.

You’re driving these same roads.

There may come a moment when eternity has its high beams headed straight toward you. No warning. No time to rehearse. No second chance to rearrange what matters.

Whose face would fill your thoughts?

Who would receive the call?

What would you wish you had said—or forgiven—or made right?

In that moment, there is no scrambling to prepare. There is only the life you’ve already been living.

That’s not meant to frighten you.
It’s meant to steady you.

Have the conversation now.
Make the call now.
Say the words now.

Talk to God before the headlights appear.

Get His attention before He gets yours.

Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life.