The other day, I had one of those moments behind the wheel that stayed with me long after I arrived at my destination.

I was entering a roundabout and had already begun making my turn when a woman sped through, apparently believing she had the right of way. She laid on her horn. And she didn’t stop there. She sped up closely behind me, still honking and gesturing.

I touched my brakes and slowed gently, and she had to slow down, but she followed me to the next traffic light, where our cars sat side by side. Without lowering her window, she mouthed all sorts of words that I probably wouldn’t want to hear. I smiled at her and waved. When the light turned green, she sped off.

I remember thinking, Really? Is this what we’re doing now?

But after the irritation settled, another thought came to me: Isn’t this, in some ways, the world we live in? We rush. We assume. We react before we understand. We become convinced that our way is the right way, and when someone gets in our way, we’re itching for a fight.

The incident made me realize that the humble roundabout is a metaphor for life.

A roundabout asks us to yield, to slow down and notice someone else. It asks us to take turns. We’re sharing the same space, traveling in the same direction, heading to different destinations, and yet somehow, we all must navigate the same circle.

And sometimes, someone makes a mistake. Sometimes we make mistakes.

My work at Jewish Senior Life has given me a greater appreciation for the importance of grace and tolerance. Every day, I have the privilege of being around people who have lived long, complicated, eventful, and beautiful lives. They’ve experienced tremendous joy and heartbreaking loss. They’ve raised families, built careers, fallen in (and out of) love, made mistakes, overcome challenges, and accumulated decades of stories.

And one thing becomes very clear: None of us knows what burdens another person is carrying. The driver who cuts us off might be rushing to the hospital. The unsmiling cashier who seems distracted might have spent the morning caring for a sick child. The neighbor who didn’t wave back might be facing issues we know nothing about.

We don’t know. And because we don’t know, maybe we could practice leaving a little more room for grace.

That doesn’t mean excusing everything or allowing people to mistreat us. There’s a difference between standing up for ourselves and speeding up to chase someone down. There’s a difference between correcting a mistake and punishing someone for making one. There’s a difference between being right and being kind.

I’ve thought about that woman I met in the roundabout. I didn’t know what was happening in her life that day. Maybe she truly believed I had done something wrong. Maybe she was simply having a terrible day. I’ll never know. But I did have a choice about what I did next. I could have honked back. I could have become just as angry. Or I could let it go. I chose to write about it instead of reacting.

Maybe that’s another lesson the roundabout offers us: not every offense needs a response. Sometimes we need to let someone pass.

As I think about JSL residents whom I have the privilege of working with in their homes, I’m reminded again that life is far too short and precious to spend it honking or waving our fists at one another. (I know… occasionally it feels good!)

What we need is more gentleness. More patience. More forgiveness. More willingness to yield. More tolerance for the mistakes we make, and the mistakes others make around us.

The next time we enter a roundabout, we can think about it a little differently.

Look to our left. Take our time and take our turn. Give someone else room.

Everyone in that circle is going somewhere. Everyone has a destination. Everyone has a story. And everyone, at one point or another, will need a stranger to yield for them.

What our world needs right now is not more people determined to get there first, but more people willing to make room for one another. After all, the goal of a roundabout isn’t to win. The goal is for everyone to get through safely.

May this Shabbat give us the courage to slow down in a world that constantly urges us to hurry. May we remember to make room for another person’s story, another person’s struggle, another person’s mistake. May we have the wisdom to know when to speak, when to listen, when to hold our ground, and when to simply yield.

May we be people who bring a little more gentleness into the world wherever we go.

Shabbat Shalom