I don’t usually care much about cars. As long as I have a vehicle that will get me from point A to point B, who cares what it’s like?
But when I married my husband, I inherited a car with a history. A flamboyant one.
The car itself was flamboyant. Certainly, it was the color of flame, of sunsets, of apples at their best. My new husband was also flamboyant, in his way, making a mark on his surroundings.
The car, however, had already been doomed to accidents and even near tragedy involving my husband. And, just a few weeks before I met him, someone else’s carelessness resulted in that flamboyant car rolling over a cliff and becoming lodged between boulders.
That was, as I said, before I knew the man—my future husband—who owned the car.
We were part of the same group of a thousand or so young people at Arrowhead Springs, the California headquarters at that time of Campus Crusade for Christ (now Cru). He had come back from a two-day training weekend to find his car wedged mercilessly deep in a rocky cleft. The story was noised abroad, and very soon, all thousand of us had heard about the cliff incident. The car’s emergency brake was not on. That tell-tale fact resulted in him looking foolish for leaving the brake off—on a hill. Especially a hill that ended in a downward trajectory toward boulders.
He was convinced (I learned later) that he had left the brake on but could not prove it. He had to resign himself to putting up with the teasing.
Generously, an offering was taken in this large group to help the man who owned the car—my future husband—to pay for damages. I was pretty much church-mouse-poor, and I did not know this man. I figured there were nine hundred and ninety-nine others who could contribute—so I did not.
In retrospect, I should have.
Weeks later, a shame-faced young worker confessed to trying to move the car for delivery purposes, took off the brake, watched helplessly as the car rolled toward the cliff—and jumped out to save himself.
But not the car.
Considerable damage was done to the flamboyant car, but at least my future husband’s name was cleared of negligence.
The day came when we married, and I inherited this flamboyant husband and his car the color of paprika. I liked it. (Well, I liked them both.)
Early in our first year of marriage, we were enjoying an innocent, balmy Texas evening on the leafy little balcony of our $85-a-month rental. The Dallas quarter of old brownstones was quiet and peaceful. Suddenly, the whole neighborhood heard a squeal of tires, a crash, and then a car backing up and roaring off. We ran to the balcony railing and looked over.
Yes, it was the flamboyant car in our duplex’s driveway that had been the victim of a hit-and-run.
We gave a shout. A neighbor took off to find the culprit, but the offending car had disappeared into the night. We had to fix our car out of our meager salary.
Just a few months later, another incident was added to our car’s history.
On a snowy Christmas day that first year away from my family, we made what was to be a quick trip to Ohio, to be back in time for my work and his graduate studies on the 27th. However, we found ourselves standing next to our flamboyant car by the side of a wintery highway, holding up a broken fan belt. We desperately hoped some generous person would mercifully interrupt his or her own Christmas trip to help us. No one stopped. We couldn't blame them. It was snowing. A perfect Christmas. Finally, a friendly policeman took pity on us.
We were late for Christmas. We were also late returning to Texas for work.
My young husband often regaled me with stories of his flamboyant-car incidents which happened to him before our marriage.
One of those occurred as he was driving on the busy Chicago beltway. He was startled to see a load of scaffolding suddenly come loose from a truck bed directly in front of him and slide rapidly toward his windshield. Had he not braked quickly, I would never have met the flamboyant man and his car the color of cherries. As it was, he could not avoid driving over the beams, which damaged the undercarriage. He had to fix the car out of his meager salary.
Another time, he found that a rock had been thrown against his side window. He had no enemies he knew of. Jealousy, perhaps, that the rock-thrower did not himself own a flamboyant car the color of sunsets?
That car took my future husband from Illinois to Pennsylvania to propose to me.
I said “Yes” (which should not be surprising), and my future husband (remember, he, too, is flamboyant) was so over the moon that he attempted a joyride on an empty side road back in Illinois. He deliberately stepped on the accelerator on a patch of ice in order to send the car spinning—which was his object—into a tree—which was not.
Somehow, that took the joy out of the joyride. His flamboyance was a bit subdued. He had to fix the car—you know…
But that car took him from Illinois to Ohio to marry me.
It took us on our honeymoon across America, with various clandestine stops.
It took us from Texas to Ohio to California and back to Texas again on trips to see our families.
When you spend time with a person, through haps and mishaps, you become endeared to that person. (We did.)
Somehow, it’s the same with cars. When we had to give it up, it was with a certain sadness. Even for me, who does not usually care much about cars.
Mercifully, we survived the car’s doomed, flamboyant history.
More mercifully still, “The Lord watches over the sojourners…” i
i (Psalm 146:9)
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