One of the great rites of passage for a teenager is obtaining a driver's license and a set of wheels. These are the first steps towards independence and they most often reveal the many reasons we aren't quite ready to leave the nest.
I have nothing but gratitude for "Big T" (Mrs. Turner), my driver's education instructor, who was a brave soul to withstand my experiments behind the wheel. She was a kind and patient lady, who kept me calm and she enriched my musical tastes with the soul station that was always playing when I got in her car. Every lesson was serenaded with the likes of Joe Tex and his classic hit, "Ain't Gonna Bump No More With No Big Fat Woman,"
I eventually learned every word of this mindless, but catchy tune. It wasn't long before "Big T" had me cruising down the interstate in my mirror shades and silk shirt, humming like Ray Charles to whatever tune was blasting the air waves. Apart from making the triangular three-point turn into more of an octagon, I did pretty well.
Learning to drive was far easier than tolerating what I was forced to drive in high school. In my day, parents passed on whatever vehicle they loathed the most to the eager hands of their inexperienced offspring. I worry about many of today's kids who are handed the keys to a new car. More than a few of these cars have ended up on the side of the road after having been wrecked due to driver negligence. A teenager is more likely to appreciate and care for what they had to work to obtain.
My first vehicle was a 1972 Pontiac Catalina, equipped with a hood so thick that you could disco dance on top of it without making a dent. It also came with a motor large enough to compete in a NASCAR race. I gave it a few races of my own making down Highway 90. Though I was never awarded a checkered flag, I did win an assortment of incredibly blue lights to hail my lead-footed accomplishments.
What saved me from ever taking a ticket home to my mother was the brave manner in which I responded to law enforcement officials who took notice of my racing skills. The first time I was pulled over, the officer issued a stern request for my license and I was so nervous that I couldn't get a grip on my license, so it tumbled to the pavement. I nervously apologized while my hands shook so violently while trying to retrieve it that I looked like Jerry Lee Lewis as he hammered out "Great Balls of Fire" on the piano.
The officer was giggling under his breath and mercifully gave me a warning that I heeded for at least three days. Speed wasn't my main concern with my car, especially in the winter. It had no functioning heat, so I had to get creative. I briefly considered a small bonfire in the floorboard, but thought better of it. I opted for a pink blanket that I cocooned myself in on those mornings when my breath was a visible reminder of the chill in the air.
I also equipped my ride with a set of old socks that served as defrosters for the windshield. Other accessories included thick gloves, ski masks, a case of motor oil and a few jugs of coolant for the radiator. It should be noted that these were the days before cell phones, so preparation trumped walking.
Due to the extravagant preparations my ride required, I preferred to keep a low profile about these matters but my dear friends had other thoughts. One day, I headed to my beloved vehicle, affectionately named "Naomi," after her biblical counterpart ("Whither thou goest, I will go!"). To my utter shock, the poor girl had been turned to a museum-like spectacle resembling a gypsy dwelling.
My assorted coats, socks, containers, tools and even my precious pink blanket were all hanging from various parts of my embarrassed fair lady. She was topped off with chalked messages supposedly written to my girlfriend. The messages were mostly tasteful, but they were woefully short of my romantic writing skills.
As I approached the car, I briefly thought a celebrity had taken up residence in the front seat because of the large gathering of gawking onlookers who were thoroughly amused by the new look my friends blessed it with.
After plotting my swift revenge, I disassembled the unwanted attire and headed to the carwash to prevent further embarrassment to my girlfriend who was, by definition, a saint. She was also a great mechanic, which came in handy for this vehicle.
Despite all the tender love and care she required, "Naomi" taught me some valuable lessons about responsibility. My greatest lesson came after I bought my first set of tires. Previously, I would "burn rubber" at every stop sign, if possible. It was so cool. After shelling out over $200 for tires, I lost all interest in hearing the manly screeching of my tires as my money peeled like a banana from their tread.
Perhaps that's why the Bible says a man should not eat if he will not work. It is far more important to appreciate what you have than to have what you want without working for it. Working isn't punishment, it's investment in the things that matter and it's the fruit of the gifts that God has blessed you with. We only have what we've been given, not what we create on our own. It all belongs to God and we should be careful to let our choices reflect that. If you're wise, you will learn to even let your mistakes remind you of your need for God's grace at every turn.
So appreciate whatever God gives you to set your hands to and invest in it. You will enjoy the rewards that come and the blessing that others receive as a result of your labor. Plus, your tires will last a lot longer as you learn to appreciate where they came from.