I was just five years old when I learned to shift for myself. Somehow I’d won the rare privilege of riding in the front seat of our 1952 Mercury with Mom and Dad. The long couch-like front seat stretched from door to door, soft coil-springs covered in scratchy wool fabric. Back then, only fighter pilots wore seat belts while toddlers stood unfettered between Mom and Dad with only a metal dashboard between them and oncoming traffic (hey, it was 1954—Ralph Nader was still studying at Princeton, dreaming of one day graduating from Harvard Law). Few gave a thought to the “second collision”—the crash that occurs when the occupants themselves slam into the dashboard with the same ferocity that demolished sheet metal.
With wide-eyed fascination I watched Dad gently cradle a lit cigarette between his index and forefinger and shift through the gears, never dropping an ash. I carefully studied the sound of the engine and anticipated exactly when he should depress the clutch pedal. I watched closely as he moved the shift lever during each gear change.
On this epic afternoon, Dad, noticing how carefully I’d watched his every move, did something I’ll never forget. Reaching his long right arm around me, he pulled me close and said, “Do you think you can shift the gears?”
“Yes!” I shouted as Mom murmured an unheeded protest.
We pulled away from the stop sign at Lake Road onto Bauman Hill Road. Dad throttled the Mercury’s V8 until it was singing just the right tune, looked at me and said, “You ready?” Was I ready? I was born ready! With the daring of a gun fighter, I lunged toward the shifter, grabbed it with both hands and promptly jammed it straight up into reverse. The transmission let out a howl that became an indelible part of my audio-memory file.
I couldn’t understand what had happened. I had watched carefully a hundred times as Dad shifted the lever up into second gear. What I failed to realize was that he actually shifted up and over to find second gear. Mom groaned. Dad winced—but then he laughed. I was sure I had broken the car, but Dad simply said, “Try it again, only this time take it half way up then over and on up. This time Team-Marvin made it into second, and as we topped the hill I thrilled to successfully pull the shifter straight down into third.
Sitting on my knees with my chin resting on the dashboard, folded hands for a pillow, I had never sat taller. I was so proud to be Dad’s son, and shift like he did. This is among my fondest memories of Dad.
We all deeply desire to please our fathers; to be like our dad. Perhaps your memories of your father aren’t as pleasant as mine, but deep inside, early in your life, you innately desired to please him. It’s built into every child. I love that the Bible tells us we are children of the Heavenly Father, that I am his child and I can call him Abba—which means “Daddy.”
My earthly father passed away over 30 years ago, and I still find myself wishing he were here to experience life with me. But I’m greatly comforted knowing my Heavenly Father watches over me and has given His Son, Jesus Christ, to walk with me through His Spirit.
Truth is, none of us shift for ourselves. Our Heavenly Father keeps His arm around us, gently directing us. Like my dad, He cleverly operates the controls that are beyond our reach, allowing us to believe we are “doing it just like Him.”
Keep putting into practice all you learned and received from me—everything you heard from me and saw me doing. Then the God of peace will be with you.
Philippians 4:9