I come from a car family. There was always a hood up in our driveway and usually at least one pair of legs sticking out from under the car. My father and two older brothers, sadly gone now, were car crazy. My younger brother Steve and I do our best to continue the family tradition. Even my dear departed mother would coo aloud whenever she saw a red convertible. That same propensity perhaps explains why my first car was a red convertible—a bright red 1962 Chevy II Nova convertible.
The little car looked and ran great, but it had a major idiosyncrasy. The steering was so flimsy and loose that whenever it crested a hill, the upward momentum would unload the suspension causing the front wheels to wobble freely like wind chimes in a storm. Each time the Nova popped over a hill the front tires squealed in protest as the frontend lifted, followed by a second chorus of howls as the nose settled back to earth. I not only learned to live with this strange behavior, I considered it an endearing characteristic and nicknamed her ‘Tangle-Foot’.
The cost to replace the suspension was more than I paid for the car, which meant I had to learn how to drive around its erratic behavior. As each hill approached, I’d grab two handfuls of steering wheel and pull myself up close (in NASCAR they call this ‘getting up on the wheel’).
With my heart racing, I would jostle the wheel from side to side hopelessly trying to anticipate which direction the car would dart when the suspension returned to its proper alignment. Even though it was incredibly unnerving, I loved the challenge. It must have scared the begeebers out of Marilyn, my lifetime co-pilot, evidenced by the permanent indentation in the dash pad where she pressed one hand while grasping the overhead bow of the convertible top frame with the other. On those glorious days when the top was down, she had nothing to hold onto but me. One more reason I was never in a hurry to have it repaired.
Tire wear was the biggest problem. Out of sheer necessity, I discovered the location of every used tire rack at every gas station in town. In the mid 60’s, you could buy a used tire that still showed a faint outline of tread for a couple bucks. For another dollar, you could get it mounted on the rim.
I commonly had four mounted spares waiting in the trunk, along with hand cleaner and a fresh shirt. Marilyn still chuckles as she describes several dates during which I changed four tires in one evening.
Red Azbel, the gracious owner of RED’s Marathon at the intersection of 37 and 22 east of town, saved junk tires for me and even allowed me to use his tire changer for free. To this day, if I catch a glint of neon and the smell of grease, I’m reminded of Red and the ding that echoed from the work bays of that gas station.
I can’t remember the last time I had a flat tire. The other day I came upon an unfortunate motorist as he stood propped against a Mustang leaning to one side as though its hind leg was broken. It appeared he didn’t know whether to shoot it or begin to probe the dark recesses of its tiny trunk for a jack; a jack he and I both knew he had no clue how to operate. I slowed to help. As you might guess, I have involuntary sympathy for people with flat tires. But then, just as I began to pull over, I saw him tapping his cell phone and assumed help would quickly be on its way.
It may seem counter-intuitive but God desires us to consider our personal difficulties as an opportunity to become a better person.
The apostle Paul wrote:
“He (God) comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us.” (2 Corinthians 1:4)
Difficulties, although frustrating, are a source of comfort; if not for ourselves, certainly for others. The Bible clearly, even irritatingly, reminds us how God desires to use what we learn from our personal struggles to help others with similar difficulties.