During a recent trip for my cousin’s wedding, my family and I were cruising along in a rented minivan when, out of nowhere, we spotted a police car behind us with its lights flashing. I pulled over, feeling a mix of trepidation and curiosity.
A young officer, probably in his early 20s, approached my window. He informed me that I was speeding in a construction zone where the limit was, as he pointed out, 45 miles per hour. My instinctive response was to argue—I was sure the sign said 65. But he quickly clarified that, yes, the speed limit had changed recently. That marked the beginning of my unfortunate encounter with what I learned was a speed trap.
While the officer wrote me a ticket, I couldn’t help but notice his trembling hands. I felt a pang of sympathy; maybe he was just getting used to the job. I briefly hoped he’d let me off with a warning, but instead, he insisted I had to appear in court the following month.
“But I’m just visiting from California!” I pleaded. “I can’t possibly make it back then.” He suggested calling the court to see if they could expedite my appearance. In a twist of fate, it hit me that my “crime” had occurred in Dixon, Illinois, the hometown of Ronald Reagan.
As I pondered this, I recalled my mother often mentioning how God has a plan and that nothing happens by chance. Perhaps this was all part of a divine plan, leading me to Dixon for a reason I couldn’t fully grasp.
After speaking with the officer, I called the city clerk to explain my situation. She was understanding and told me I could meet with the judge, but not until the next day. So, after a quick discussion with my family, we decided to spend the night in Dixon.
We settled into a Holiday Inn and, compelled by curiosity, ventured out for pizza followed by an exploration of the town. It was my first visit to Dixon, and I felt it was only right to learn about its notable resident, Ronald Reagan. We visited his childhood home and the area where he used to save lives as a lifeguard.
We even took a little trek to find the logs Reagan supposedly marked for every life he saved, but, of course, we came up empty-handed.
Later, as we enjoyed the riverside, I explained to my daughters the significance of the Rock River. It felt good to just relax, and amidst everything, I enjoyed sharing bits of history with them.
When the next morning came, we made our way to the courthouse. As we approached the metal detector, I was anxious but mostly focused on what I needed to do next. My public defender explained that while jail time was an option, I’d likely just pay a fine if I pled guilty.
I remembered how I was just following the car in front of me and how it had spirited past me before the officer pulled me over. I had it all on video, dashboard footage showing my predicament. Surely, I thought, this could prove important.
As I stood before the judge, I asked if I could share my footage with him. “How do you plead?” he shot back.
I hesitated, thinking of my daughters needing me home and how jail wasn’t a viable option for my family. “Guilty, your honor,” I said swiftly, and just like that, I was off to pay a hefty fine.
As I handed over my payment at the clerk’s window, a thought crossed my mind. This same procedure probably repeated itself many times that day; it felt like a cycle of funding city services through tickets.
Eventually, what happened became less of a concern. Back in California, my aunt sent a check to help cover my ticket, proposing that perhaps this trip had a purpose after all—a twist in life’s narrative orchestrated by a higher plan.
