An unexpected wave of nostalgia hits as I scrape the early frost off the windshield of my burgundy Impala. The fifteen-year old car will no longer be mine tomorrow. One or two signatures, a pat on the hood, a last drive up the road and it will officially belong to the Bean family. A much-needed, pretty reliable extra vehicle.
I鈥檓 glad it鈥檚 staying in the family, I think, then chide myself. That鈥檚 ridiculous. I鈥檝e never been attached to a car; a tool for getting from Point A to Point B. But this Impala has carried me safely for eleven years. To speaking engagements here and there, but mostly back and forth to work. North and south on Highway Nine, from Yorkton to Norquay, then from Ebenezer to Yorkton, in weather inclement and sublime 鈥� some days, true to prairie climate, both. Inside the cozy grey interior, I鈥檝e chatted with passengers. Kept up with the news. Enjoyed classical music and audio books. And in that private space, with no audience but my Heavenly Father, I鈥檝e prayed. Lots.
My iron steed has no feelings. I know this. But I鈥檓 surprised by mine. Were the Impala a horse, I鈥檇 dissolve in tears at the thought of letting it go. But a vehicle is just a hunk of hunk of metal, assembled by human hands.
It鈥檚 also my sanctuary. I may shed tears anyway.
The Chevy was four when I bought it. A rebuild project, rescued from an insurance write-off lot. 鈥淢y budget is five-thousand,鈥� I told the man who rebuilt it. True to his commitment, he stayed fairly close to that. The car has given me no trouble to speak of, though I鈥檝e banged it up a little. The driver side wheel fell entirely off on the highway one day, rolling to the other side. Human error caused that (remember to get your wheels torqued!) and by God鈥檚 design, no one was injured.
And way back when, it needed a new fuel pump or something. Along the years I fixed a few other problems. Small things, small bills. Then recently something big happened, generating a big bill.
We鈥檝e made constant repairs to old cars before. I always knew I didn鈥檛 want to go there. I鈥檇 decided recently that given its age, when the first large bill hit, I鈥檇 look for a newer ride. I did. A newer Impala, silver, already sits in the driveway.
All this, I think about as I scrape. Of how many, many times I thanked God for my good, safe car and the kind people who鈥檝e helped me care for it. The mechanics. The tire guys. The Preacher, who schlepped the two sets of tires back and forth to the shop for seasonal switching. He cleaned it out thoroughly yesterday, preparing for its new owners.
This car has been more than a safe ride, I realize mid-scrape. It鈥檚 been a vehicle of grace. Another evidence of God鈥檚 mercy. I am grateful for that. And this: the car will roll on, but God鈥檚 faithfulness remains.
