Trust and Car Problems
So, I have two liberal arts degrees. One is in a dead language and the other is in things divine and supernatural. Needless to say, for me the old adage ringeth true: there is no trouble like car trouble.
On Saturday we were due to take a 75 minute drive south to visit family for a late Christmas celebration.
The night before we were out much later than we've ever been since the advent of James Henry -- 9pm! We had an awesome evening with the Anchored in Christ Catholic young adults group in the Rice Lake area. And as we rolled into the driveway we praised God for the gifts of new friends and a stellar community of wonderful young Catholic disciples.
As our tongues confessed that Jesus was Lord -- and a good Lord at that -- my eyes saw the low engine oil light flicker on and my prayer plummeted from praise to petition as my heart fell from grateful to ungrateful at light speed -- "low engine oil light" speed.
For those of you that don't know me, one of my many weaknesses of character is that I tend to be a worrier -- especially when the subject of my worrying pertains to an area of insecurity or perceived inadequacy. Well, for this man there is no area of greater insecurity than that of engine problems.
Having grown up in suburban Chicago and spent the subsequent nine years in the ivory towers of academia, the knot of tubes and valves and dip-sticks and pistons and whatnot that comprise our Kia Sorento's V6 engine compartment are as familiar and as comprehensible to my eyes as a Latin lexicon would be to my northwoods neighbor's.
"To each, his own," you interject. "We all have strengths and weaknesses."
Fair enough, my gracious friend.
However, I shouldn't think my neighbor will need to drive his Cicero to Eau Claire any time soon. Nor will he need to tinker with his Vulgate's mis-firing conjugations on the side of the road in sub-zero conditions, while trucks whiz by and his wife and children freeze to death amidst participles and prepositions he can't begin to fathom.
Melodramatic? Perhaps; but you get my point.
Over the course of seven years of living in the northwoods, I've come a long way in terms of basic how-to with tools and fixing things, but most of the ground I've made up has been in woodworking and other non-mechanical ventures. So, sadly, the ways of the automobile engine are just as foreign now as ever.
All of that to say, on Saturday morning, I went out to gauge the situation -- no pun intended -- ill equipped. My last words to Stephanie as I went out to tackle the issues at hand were, "maybe the light won't be on for some reason this morning". That was my best bet... Wow. In hindsight that sounds even more pathetic than it felt in the moment.
Well, the light was on; so I weighed our alternatives. We could drive the Kia and just keep putting oil in it. (By the way, we had just had the oil changed at our very highly trusted mechanic -- so surely whatever was wrong was gravely wrong...) or we could drive our rust-bucket F150. The only issue with the latter option is that the truck has a gas leak.
To repeat, our options were:
A. Gas leak
B. Oil leak
We went with A. Gas leak.
The gas (so far) only leaks when you're filling the tank up at the gas station. But, boy oh boy, does that baby leak. The gas light was on; so we got the boys loaded up and headed into town to fill up on our way to Eau Claire.
Being someone who enjoys words, I must here pause for a moment. To say that the truck leaks gas probably elicits an image of a drip (perhaps steadily, but nevertheless drippily) falling peacably on the ground as the greedy, piglike belly of our Ford F150 guzzles down a big drink of unleaded 10% ethanol gasoline. Such an image, though charming, is nevertheless woefully incorrect. The spectacle of this leak was such that I had Stephanie get out to watch as a solid quarter, if not third, of the gasoline going into the gas pipe was hastily exiting through some unseen crack and cascading noisily onto the gas station pavement. We pumped 10.6 gallons out of which surely a solid 3.5 were offered as a gratuity to help weed the cracks of parking lot come spring.
The engine half full -- as much as I could in good conscience pour on the pavement -- we hit the highway. As James drifted serenely off to sleep and Stephanie began reading a stack of books to John Paul in the back seat, I settled in to contemplate life, providence, my auto-mechanical inadequacies and the love of God.
What does it mean to trust God? I grappled with that as I prayed.
Supposedly St. Ignatius of Loyola said that we ought to pray knowing that it all depends on God, but act as though it all depends on us. I understand what is meant by that sentiment, and I think that there great truth in it, but can there really be such a division between action and prayer? Surely not.
I prayed a Rosary and a Chaplet. God gave me some peace. And finally I heard the Lord whisper into my heart, 'blessed are the poor'. I asked myself if I'd rather be blessed or safe. I asked, after all, what is poverty? Is poverty two vehicles that are breaking down? And then, after all, what is safety? Two newer vehicles under bumper to bumper warranty? #firstworldquestions If I can't trust God with two vehicles and the means to fix them -- then what can I trust him with?
As is always the case, my anxieties calmed as I invited Christ into the situation. It only took three hours of my figuring things out for myself, before I remembered that Christ is my Lord -- yes even the Lord of my insecurity and of my possessions and of our shrinking vehicle savings account.
Jesus, I trust in you.
One of the things that I know the Lord is calling me to grow in is simplicity. He wants me to be who I am and to be that all the way through and he wants to transform that into an authentic image of Him: with no facades and no fears and no exceptions. He wants me to acknowledge the areas that that I feel inadequate in, the areas that I'm broken in and to humbly say, here I am Lord, I've come to do your will. I place my trust in you. You are my Lord, and my shepherd. I cling to you and will follow where you lead. Amen.
On Saturday we were due to take a 75 minute drive south to visit family for a late Christmas celebration.
The night before we were out much later than we've ever been since the advent of James Henry -- 9pm! We had an awesome evening with the Anchored in Christ Catholic young adults group in the Rice Lake area. And as we rolled into the driveway we praised God for the gifts of new friends and a stellar community of wonderful young Catholic disciples.
As our tongues confessed that Jesus was Lord -- and a good Lord at that -- my eyes saw the low engine oil light flicker on and my prayer plummeted from praise to petition as my heart fell from grateful to ungrateful at light speed -- "low engine oil light" speed.
For those of you that don't know me, one of my many weaknesses of character is that I tend to be a worrier -- especially when the subject of my worrying pertains to an area of insecurity or perceived inadequacy. Well, for this man there is no area of greater insecurity than that of engine problems.
Having grown up in suburban Chicago and spent the subsequent nine years in the ivory towers of academia, the knot of tubes and valves and dip-sticks and pistons and whatnot that comprise our Kia Sorento's V6 engine compartment are as familiar and as comprehensible to my eyes as a Latin lexicon would be to my northwoods neighbor's.
"To each, his own," you interject. "We all have strengths and weaknesses."
Fair enough, my gracious friend.
However, I shouldn't think my neighbor will need to drive his Cicero to Eau Claire any time soon. Nor will he need to tinker with his Vulgate's mis-firing conjugations on the side of the road in sub-zero conditions, while trucks whiz by and his wife and children freeze to death amidst participles and prepositions he can't begin to fathom.
Melodramatic? Perhaps; but you get my point.
Over the course of seven years of living in the northwoods, I've come a long way in terms of basic how-to with tools and fixing things, but most of the ground I've made up has been in woodworking and other non-mechanical ventures. So, sadly, the ways of the automobile engine are just as foreign now as ever.
All of that to say, on Saturday morning, I went out to gauge the situation -- no pun intended -- ill equipped. My last words to Stephanie as I went out to tackle the issues at hand were, "maybe the light won't be on for some reason this morning". That was my best bet... Wow. In hindsight that sounds even more pathetic than it felt in the moment.
Well, the light was on; so I weighed our alternatives. We could drive the Kia and just keep putting oil in it. (By the way, we had just had the oil changed at our very highly trusted mechanic -- so surely whatever was wrong was gravely wrong...) or we could drive our rust-bucket F150. The only issue with the latter option is that the truck has a gas leak.
To repeat, our options were:
A. Gas leak
B. Oil leak
We went with A. Gas leak.
The gas (so far) only leaks when you're filling the tank up at the gas station. But, boy oh boy, does that baby leak. The gas light was on; so we got the boys loaded up and headed into town to fill up on our way to Eau Claire.
Being someone who enjoys words, I must here pause for a moment. To say that the truck leaks gas probably elicits an image of a drip (perhaps steadily, but nevertheless drippily) falling peacably on the ground as the greedy, piglike belly of our Ford F150 guzzles down a big drink of unleaded 10% ethanol gasoline. Such an image, though charming, is nevertheless woefully incorrect. The spectacle of this leak was such that I had Stephanie get out to watch as a solid quarter, if not third, of the gasoline going into the gas pipe was hastily exiting through some unseen crack and cascading noisily onto the gas station pavement. We pumped 10.6 gallons out of which surely a solid 3.5 were offered as a gratuity to help weed the cracks of parking lot come spring.
The engine half full -- as much as I could in good conscience pour on the pavement -- we hit the highway. As James drifted serenely off to sleep and Stephanie began reading a stack of books to John Paul in the back seat, I settled in to contemplate life, providence, my auto-mechanical inadequacies and the love of God.
What does it mean to trust God? I grappled with that as I prayed.
Supposedly St. Ignatius of Loyola said that we ought to pray knowing that it all depends on God, but act as though it all depends on us. I understand what is meant by that sentiment, and I think that there great truth in it, but can there really be such a division between action and prayer? Surely not.
I prayed a Rosary and a Chaplet. God gave me some peace. And finally I heard the Lord whisper into my heart, 'blessed are the poor'. I asked myself if I'd rather be blessed or safe. I asked, after all, what is poverty? Is poverty two vehicles that are breaking down? And then, after all, what is safety? Two newer vehicles under bumper to bumper warranty? #firstworldquestions If I can't trust God with two vehicles and the means to fix them -- then what can I trust him with?
As is always the case, my anxieties calmed as I invited Christ into the situation. It only took three hours of my figuring things out for myself, before I remembered that Christ is my Lord -- yes even the Lord of my insecurity and of my possessions and of our shrinking vehicle savings account.
Jesus, I trust in you.
One of the things that I know the Lord is calling me to grow in is simplicity. He wants me to be who I am and to be that all the way through and he wants to transform that into an authentic image of Him: with no facades and no fears and no exceptions. He wants me to acknowledge the areas that that I feel inadequate in, the areas that I'm broken in and to humbly say, here I am Lord, I've come to do your will. I place my trust in you. You are my Lord, and my shepherd. I cling to you and will follow where you lead. Amen.
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