Burdened with
overstuffed handbag, rolling suitcase, and ukulele, I maneuver around the front
door and manage to pull it shut behind me. At least the sun is sort of up and
it’s not raining. I safely cross the compacted snow and ice separating me from
my car, unlock it, and stow the suitcase and ukulele in the back seat.
Finally in the
driver’s seat, I start my car. Only it’s not my car. My car was making a funny
scraping sound and went to visit a mechanic. This is my husband’s car. It’s
newer than mine, runs smoother, and the Sirius XM radio comes in clearly all
the time. But I don’t like it. If I were in my car, it would already be warm. A
brilliantly conceived Christmas gift from my sons a few years ago, a remote
starter, means I happily press a button and the car starts and warms up while I
frantically rush around inside for a few more minutes.
Today, the hub’s
car is cold. Jack Frost decorated the front windshield and vandalized the rear
windshield. My hub’s pristinely empty car has no ice scrapers. He must have
moved them to the rental he’s using. My ice tools went to see the mechanic with
my car. So I must wait for the wires in the back window to melt the ice. I’ve
always wondered why the auto designers don’t put wires in the front. I must
wait for cold air blowing from the cold heater to melt the cold ice on the
front windshield.
I’m going to be
late for school.
As small patches of
clear glass appear, I run the windshield wipers in a feeble attempt to spread
the warmth. Finally after an hour, or maybe five minutes, there’s more clear
glass than frost and I start driving. There’s still not heat. Also the car
doesn’t quite fit my body. I sit on a thick cushion. The seat is so far forward
to reach the pedals that my knee bumps the steering column.
I turn on my hub’s
superior Sirius radio and I can clearly hear more drama about the White House
staff. Ugh. The stress of the presidential campaign and election and aftermath
and inauguration and aftermath just won’t go away.
I turn off News and choose Symphony. Some
intense pianist is beating the keys in a stress-elevating staccato rhythm. Ugh.
How do I find
Sirius’s Christian station? How do I get out of Sirius and find WGRC, my local
Christian radio station? I need Don and Dave’s badinage in the morning. I need
encouraging music. I need Luis Palau. All available by pressing button 4 on my
radio in my car which is at the mechanic’s.
After ten miles,
the car is finally warm, but still silent. I try to remember an encouraging
song I can sing to myself. A few lines from a back-in-the-day song emerge,
“Reach out to Jesus; he’s reaching out to you.” I sing with my croaky morning
voice and more lines come.
Is your burden heavy as
you bear it all alone?
Does the road you’re
traveling harbor dangers yet unknown?
Are you growing weary in the struggle of it
all?
Jesus will help you when on his name you
call.
He is always there, hearing every prayer,
faithful and true.
Walking by his side, in his strength we
hide, all the day through.
When you get discouraged and you don’t know
what to do,
Reach out to Jesus; he’s reaching out to
you.
I come close to remembering the
words. I sing it several more times to myself and to the Lord.
I remember my favorite passage from
the Message paraphrase of the Bible.
So we’re not giving up.
How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling
apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by
without his unfolding grace. These hard
times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish
celebration prepared for us. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The
things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see
now will last forever. 2 Corinthians 4:16 – 18
The more serious NIV renders the
verse, “For our light
and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far
outweighs them all.”
It’s popular nowadays
to call this kind of stuff “first world problems.” While women in other parts
of the world are walking miles to get water and carrying it on their heads back
to their village, I feel put out because I have to drive my hub’s VW instead of
my PT Cruiser.
But I prefer the
very American idiom, small potatoes. The stuff I’m facing this morning is
smaller than small potatoes. It’s smaller than a tater tot or a single shred of
hash browns.
Thank you, Lord,
for reminding me.
