One night, I found myself alone in a car with an arachnid.

My husband had just walked out of earshot when a movement on the windshield caught my eye. Peering through the shadows, I discovered a ghostly spider creeping along the inside of the glass.

Normally this would evoke a stereotypically feminine overreaction on my part. Like any girly woman, I tend to yelp and hop away from evil-looking bugs (to me, spiders, centipedes, and earwigs fall in this category). Once I almost ran into a parked car when I discovered a tiny black jumping spider on my steering wheel.

Thankfully, now that I'm married, I have a dragon slayer: Sam saunters to my rescue whenever I beckon him, often killing the offending bug with his bare hands. It's a habit I find repellent yet courageous, and I have gotten a jolly laugh out of watching our toddler mimic it whenever he finds an ant on the floor.

But here I was, in the middle of a ShopKo parking lot. My dilemma: Would I stay frozen where I was and let the thing potentially disappear into the vast realms of our Contour—only to drop straight into my hair on our next car ride? Or would I be brave and squash it myself?

The spider's graceful front legs were leading it in gradual circles across the pane, exploring the cool glass. It was the kind of shimmery green spider that I often find in my kitchen after bringing in roses from the garden.

My fear began to dissipate as I marveled at the engineering of this delicate creature. I could never compose such a mechanical or aesthetic masterpiece—yet millions of similar creatures come into being every season, and I destroy them without a second thought whenever they happen to seek shelter in the unused corners of my home.

As I watched the spider dance, I felt ...