Riding in a car was different when I was a kid. We were free to move about the cabin. We pressed our noses to the glass and our imaginations soared as we watched the scenery pass in real time. I remember laughing at Lady, our neighbor’s collie, who compulsively chased every car that passed her driveway—she’d chase us to the edge of her yard, where she’d turn and slow to a trot, head held high in evident pride that once again she’d successfully fended off another intruder.
With four brothers all vying for a window seat, the competition was fierce. We observed an unwritten code that declared whoever first touched the car’s door handle could call “window seat.” Our parents had long ago opted out of this argument and left us to fend for ourselves. It would begin innocently enough. We’d walk down the sidewalk toward the car, each brother feigning an air of unconcern, ambling along peacefully… until someone made a break for it. And the race was on! Elbowing, tripping, and tugging at one another’s arms, lunging for the door handle—the fact that there were two rear doors, one on each side of the car, only added to the spectacle.
Question: Do I race with the group of four toward the closest door, hoping to best the others? Or, do I split from the pack and race for the opposite side of the car? This move not only split the runners into two groups but it required the second group to negotiate a sharp ninety degree turn at the back of the car. Gravel flew as two, sometimes three of us bludgeoned our way around the rear of the car. The Mercury’s tailfins provided the leader a grab-bar that allowed him to pivot tightly while the others tumbled off into the forsythia bushes. Once inside the car; the back seat was awash with huffing and puffing; two declaring victory, one crying foul and the other just crying.
In my earliest memories, while traveling at night, I’d crawl up onto the rear shelf of our Mercury and lay blanketed by the soft silver of a moonlit night as it washed through the back glass. I’d watch the stars go by and be entertained by the interplay of the moonbeams through the overhanging trees that canopied our country roads. Often I’d fall asleep on that rear shelf, and awaken the next morning mystified to be in my own bed.
As my mother aged toward her recent passing, our conversations became more and more one-sided. She’d long since stopped driving and eventually stopped speaking. During one of my last monologues, as I reminded her about falling asleep on the back shelf of the Mercury, she surprised me. Her eyes brightened and she said, “You would wake up the next day, rub your eyes and say, ‘Who taked me to bed?’ And, I’d say, Your daddy carried you.’”
“Your daddy carried you.” Her words might possibly be one of the finest gifts I’ve ever received. As a grown man, of course I knew “who taked me to bed” but to hear it again from my mother transported me to a quieter place. I was taken aback by her simple reminder.
“…God, your God, carried you as a father carries his child, carried you the whole way until you arrived here.” Deuteronomy 1:31 The Message
I wonder if we fully realize the times our Heavenly Father has carried us to safer, quieter places. Accidents missed, catastrophes averted… even life itself extended. I pray you can find comfort and peace in that thought. I certainly do!
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.