“My son, do not make light of the Lord’s discipline, and do not lose heart when he rebukes you, because the Lord disciplines the one he loves.”
— Hebrews 12:5–6 (NIV)

By the time I took my first Texas road test, I was a grown woman, married to a football coach, and already the owner of a car I technically could not legally drive by myself.

This was perhaps not our finest example of planning ahead.

But the car was there.

My husband was there.

And somewhere inside me was a sixteen-year-old girl from Brooklyn who had been trying unsuccessfully to get a driver’s license for years.

Surely Texas would be different.

It was.

I failed before I could properly get out of the parking lot.

Yes.

The parking lot.

I didn’t make it onto the road.

And my loving, supportive, encouraging football-coach husband responded in approximately the way you would expect a football coach to respond.

Drive.

There would be no ceremonious return to the passenger seat.

No extended period of mourning.

No declaration that perhaps driving simply wasn’t one of my spiritual gifts.

We owned a car.

I needed to drive.

Therefore, according to Oji Fagan…

I was going to drive.

Welcome to Hubby Coach.

But We Have to Go Back to Brooklyn

To understand why that Texas parking lot carried so much weight, you have to understand that I had been failing road tests for years.

The problem was never that I couldn’t learn how to drive.

I did well in driver’s education.

I understood the rules.

I could operate the vehicle.

But put an evaluator beside me with a clipboard?

Apparently, all previously acquired knowledge departed my body.

My first road test was when I was around sixteen.

And my examiner seemed to embody every stereotype of the unpleasant DMV employee.

Instructions came too late.

My anxiety rose.

I failed.

And after the test, I remember the examiner speeding away.

It was probably completely insignificant to that person.

For teenage Lela?

Not so much.

The experience planted something.

Maybe I’m not good at this.

Later, while practicing with a former teacher, another incident added to the anxiety. During one lesson, the teacher reached across the vehicle.

I sideswiped a parked car.

Well.

That certainly didn’t help.

Eventually, I stopped thinking:

I haven’t passed the road test yet.

Somewhere along the way, the story became:

I can’t drive.

Those are two very different statements.

I just didn’t know it yet.

Then I Married a Coach

Oji didn’t particularly care for my carefully constructed narrative about why I couldn’t drive.

To him, the solution seemed fairly obvious.

Practice.

Drive.

Practice some more.

Drive some more.

This is a man who has spent much of his adult life developing athletes. He sees potential and immediately begins figuring out how to get it out of you.

This is wonderful when you are one of his football players.

It can be slightly less charming when you are his wife.

Because sometimes I didn’t need Coach Fagan.

I needed my husband.

And early in our marriage, we were both still learning the difference.

He knew I was capable.

What he didn’t initially understand was that my difficulty wasn’t primarily mechanical.

It was emotional.

I wasn’t particularly afraid of the car.

I was afraid of the person sitting beside me deciding whether I was good enough.

And that fear had been riding with me much longer than Oji had.

Hubby Coach Gets Coached

Then something interesting happened.

Oji began working toward his commercial driver’s license.

And eventually, Coach found himself facing his own road test.

Suddenly, the man who had been telling me to relax discovered something:

Road-test anxiety is real.

There is something uniquely unnerving about knowing that someone is watching every turn, every stop, every decision, waiting to determine whether you have performed correctly.

Oji came away from his own experience understanding mine differently.

And he apologized.

Not for believing I could drive.

He was right about that.

But for coaching me harder than I needed to be coached when he didn’t yet understand what was happening underneath my fear.

That’s one of the things marriage has taught both of us.

Loving someone doesn’t automatically mean you know how they need to be coached.

Sometimes love has to learn its delivery.

Enter Uncle Baz

Then Uncle Basil entered the driver’s education program.

Uncle Baz, as we called him, was my uncle through marriage, and his approach was completely different.

He took me to an empty parking lot in his Ford truck.

There was no pressure to prove anything.

We practiced.

We worked on confidence first.

Then we worked on technique.

When it came time to practice parallel parking, he taught me to use the poles as visual markers so I could understand distance and positioning.

And through it all came his steady encouragement:

“Lela girl, you will be okay. You will pass that road test.”

Not:

What’s wrong with you?

Not:

You should know this by now.

Not:

How many times are we going to do this?

Just:

You will be okay.

You will pass.

And eventually…

I did.

The Thing I Was Actually Afraid Of

Passing my road test felt wonderful.

But years later, I understand that the driver’s license wasn’t the most important thing I gained.

I learned something about myself.

I wasn’t afraid of driving.

I was afraid of being evaluated.

That distinction changed far more than my ability to sit behind a steering wheel.

For years, correction and criticism had become tangled together in my mind.

Someone could say:

Here’s something you need to adjust.

And somewhere inside me, I might hear:

You failed.

You should have known better.

You aren’t good at this.

So I would become anxious.

Defensive.

Or immediately start trying to fix everything.

Because fixing things was familiar to me.

When You Learn to Fix It Yourself

There were times in my earlier years when situations needed fixing and the adults around me didn’t always seem capable of fixing them for me.

So I learned.

I became resourceful.

Independent.

Capable.

Those qualities have served me well.

But sometimes our strengths grow around old survival strategies.

When you’ve spent years believing you need to solve the problem yourself, receiving instruction can feel strangely vulnerable.

Someone else is telling you what to do.

Someone else sees something you missed.

Someone else is asking you to adjust.

It took maturity for me to learn:

Correction is not condemnation.

And being corrected doesn’t mean I have failed as a person.

Sometimes it simply means…

I missed the turn.

Recalculating

Maybe that’s why I think of God’s correction differently now.

I think about GPS.

You miss your turn.

The GPS doesn’t announce:

Well, Lela, apparently you’re incapable of following basic instructions.

It doesn’t spend the next three miles reminding you of every other turn you’ve missed since 1993.

It simply recalculates.

Make a U-turn.

Take the next exit.

There’s another route from where you are to where you’re trying to go.

That is increasingly how I understand loving correction.

Hebrews reminds us that God corrects His children because He loves us.

He doesn’t leave us continually traveling in the wrong direction simply to spare our feelings.

Sometimes grace sounds like:

Recalculating.

Sometimes love says:

Make the U-turn.

Sometimes God lovingly redirects us because He knows where the road we’re traveling leads.

The correction isn’t rejection.

It’s navigation.

Selah Before You Respond

I’ve also learned that my ability to receive correction changes dramatically depending on my condition when it arrives.

Especially when I’m tired.

When I’m depleted, a suggestion can sound like criticism.

A question can feel like an accusation.

A correction can trigger an immediate need to explain, defend, or fix.

But when I allow myself Selah—a pause, a moment to breathe, space between what I’ve heard and how I respond—I can ask a much better question:

What is actually being said to me?

Not:

What am I afraid this means?

Those are very different questions.

Sometimes the person isn’t criticizing me.

They’re giving me information.

And information can be useful.

Listen.

Receive.

Adjust.

Keep moving.

Then My Children Started Coaching Me

The funny thing about learning to become teachable is that eventually you realize teachers are everywhere.

Including your own back seat.

This morning, I was taking the kids with me to the laundromat to dry our clothes.

The day before, because we were running late for service, we had missed one of our little Sunday traditions.

When I’m serving in Super Church, we sometimes stop for Dunkin’ beforehand. Trevor and I get coffee rolls. Tyson gets donut holes.

At least, that’s what I thought everybody’s order was.

Since we missed our stop yesterday, I decided we’d make up for it this morning while the clothes were drying with a trip to Cocoa Donuts, a wonderful family-owned donut shop near Cy Springs.

Before we even got to the laundromat, I started taking orders.

I asked Tyson:

“Do you want a coffee roll or donut holes?”

He paused.

Then:

“Mom, can I choose what I want when we get to the store?”

I asked, “So you want to come inside with me?”

“Yes.”

Now, I could have responded:

No. I gave you Option A and Option B.

Instead, I laughed.

“You know what, Tyson? I love that you always try to create an Option C.”

And yes.

He came inside with Mommy.

Because sometimes the options I present aren’t the only options available.

Message received.

Apparently, I Had Another Customer

We returned to the car, and I began handing out everyone’s selections.

Then I heard a voice.

“Donut. Donut.”

Ella Grace reached toward the food.

Well.

Apparently, I had neglected a customer.

Ella has historically been a selective eater, so I hadn’t automatically assumed she would want anything.

But here’s the thing about raising children:

They grow.

And if I’m not careful, I can continue parenting yesterday’s version of them.

So back into Cocoa Donuts I went.

I bought the smallest order of donut holes they offered.

Six.

Because while Mama is committed to encouraging an expanding palate, Mama also believes in responsible pilot programs.

Ella Grace sat there gleefully examining her donut holes.

Then she ate one.

And another.

By the time I retrieved our dry clothes and we made it home to finish the rest of our day…

the bag was empty.

All six.

Well then.

Recalculating.

Ella Grace likes donut holes.

The Parent Has to Stay Teachable Too

That tiny morning interaction brought the entire lesson back around.

I want my children to be teachable.

But they need a teachable mother.

Tyson needs to know he can respectfully tell me when he sees an Option C.

Ella Grace needs a mother willing to update what she thinks she knows about her daughter as her daughter grows.

And all three of my children need parents who understand that independence is wonderful—but childhood isn’t supposed to require them to solve everything themselves.

I know something about learning to fix things early.

That’s precisely why I want something different for them.

I want Trevor, Tyson, and Ella Grace to know:

You are capable.

You are intelligent.

Your voice matters.

And you do not have to carry responsibilities that belong to the adults who love you.

It’s okay to be coached.

It’s okay to be parented.

It’s okay not to know.

It’s okay to receive correction.

It’s okay to let somebody help you find the route.

There will come a day when they are the adults making those decisions for themselves and perhaps for children of their own.

They don’t have to rush there.

Keep Driving

I passed my road test years ago.

I’ve driven countless miles since.

Texas highways.

School drop-offs.

Football games.

Church.

Work.

Doctors’ appointments.

Grocery stores.

Laundromats.

Cocoa Donuts.

Life.

But the most important lesson from that driver’s seat had very little to do with operating a vehicle.

I learned how to be evaluated without allowing evaluation to unravel me.

I’m still learning how to hear correction without automatically translating it into criticism.

I’m learning that being teachable doesn’t make me less capable.

It makes growth possible.

And I’m learning that the people who love us sometimes love us enough to tell us when we’re headed the wrong way.

Oji did that.

Uncle Baz did that.

God continues to do that.

And now, sometimes, my children do too.

Maybe maturity isn’t reaching the point where nobody needs to correct you.

Maybe maturity is becoming secure enough to receive loving correction without internalizing it as rejection.

Because we never really graduate from being pupils.

And spiritually, we never graduate from being children at all.

So when correction comes, I’m trying to remember what it took me years to learn:

Stay calm.

Listen.

Receive the correction.

Make the adjustment.

And when necessary…

make the U-turn.

Then keep driving.

🎬 Producer’s Cut

There’s a reason I wanted the Cocoa Donuts story inside this chapter instead of saving it for another reflection.

It shows me that the lesson is still alive.

Sixteen-year-old Lela thought the person holding the clipboard possessed the power to determine whether she was capable.

Adult Lela knows better.

An evaluation can tell me how I performed in a moment.

It cannot tell me who I am.

A correction can reveal something I need to change.

It doesn’t have to become something I internalize about my worth.

And perhaps most importantly, being the adult in the room doesn’t mean I’m always the one doing the teaching.

Sometimes my child says:

What about Option C?

Sometimes another says:

Donut. Donut.

And my responsibility is simply to be present enough to hear them.

That requires something I didn’t always give myself when I was younger:

Selah.

Rest.

Pause.

Space.

Enough quiet between the information and my reaction to determine what I’ve actually been given.

Is this criticism?

Or is there something here that can help me grow?

Because I’ve discovered that loving correction often doesn’t sound like condemnation at all.

Sometimes it sounds like a football coach saying:

Drive.

Sometimes it sounds like an uncle saying:

Lela girl, you will be okay.

Sometimes it sounds like Scripture reminding me that God loves His children enough to redirect us.

And sometimes it sounds like GPS:

Recalculating.

There is still a road forward from here.

🎬 Director’s Reflection

Writing this chapter made me realize that Oji and I have spent much of our marriage coaching one another.

Not always gracefully.

Certainly not always quietly.

But we’ve learned.

Oji had to learn that believing in my ability didn’t mean his coaching method was automatically the one I needed.

I had to learn that being coached didn’t mean someone doubted my ability.

Those are different lessons.

Both required love to mature.

And now we’re raising children who are fiercely independent in their own ways.

I don’t want to extinguish that.

I want them to know how to advocate for themselves, think critically, find Option C, communicate what they need, and eventually navigate the world without us.

But I also want them to experience the safety of childhood while they still can.

They don’t have to fix everything.

Mom and Dad are here.

They can receive instruction without believing something is wrong with them.

They can make mistakes without believing they are mistakes.

They can be redirected without being rejected.

And perhaps that’s one of the greatest things Oji and I can model for them:

Strong people remain teachable.

Parents remain teachable.

Coaches remain teachable.

Leaders remain teachable.

Writers definitely remain teachable.

And children of God remain teachable.

We don’t lose our strength when someone lovingly helps us adjust our route.

Sometimes that’s exactly how we get where God has been leading us all along.

Continue the Journey

Found in the Margins is an ongoing memoir series by Lela J. Fagan, exploring the ordinary moments, quiet faith, unexpected detours, and unseen stories that shaped a remarkable life. Each chapter builds on the last, revealing how God often works in the margins long before we recognize His hand.

Whether you’re joining the journey for the first time or returning for the next chapter, I’m grateful you’re here.

📖 Read the complete series on Memoirs of a Black Girl:
https://memoirsofablackgirl.com

📝 Prefer to read on Substack? Subscribe here to receive new chapters in your inbox:
https://lelajfagan.substack.com

Share on Social Media