``Oh no,’’ I thought, and instinctively began to get out of bed. ``Dad . . .?’’ The plaintive wail of Jon’s trembling voice was chilling. He had run five blocks home was out of breath. ``Dad, a strange car followed me. I cut through the parking lot behind the church. I hit a curb.’’ I threw on some clothes and we went to see the car. As we drove, the silence was palpable; my rage seethed just under the surface. Jon fidgeted.
The GTI sat crumpled in the dark, listing to one side. The wheel and tire were jammed up under the fender. The damage was far worse than a broken wheel. I was so mad I could hardly talk. I wanted to scream about carelessness, and trying to ditch the “strange car,’’ but I knew I would erupt if I said anything. As I paced and fumed, I began to calm down. No one was hurt, and the car, well – it was just a car. My son was more important.
Why was this nine-year-old car so dear to me? I bought it new in 1984, and it had been my personal hot rod. After a couple of years I replaced it with a used Porsche 944. The woman who bought my GTI loved it as much as I did. One night, six years later, she called to say it was for sale. I went to see it, couldn’t resist. The car was like the day I sold it. No dents, no scratches and only 51,000 miles. The exhaust still had its ornery cackle. As I ran my hand over the radio I installed myself, the memories came flooding back. The GTI was soon back in my garage for Jon, my 16-year-old. Little did I know that this car would teach me a lesson about forgiveness.
Jon’s words, written when he was the editor of the Shawnee Mission East newspaper, say it better than I ever could:
“In 1984, my dad fulfilled a dream. He bought a brand new, white Volkswagen Rabbit GTI. He cleaned and cared for it with the caution of a mother tending a newborn child. It was his baby. Nine years later, and two or three cars later, I had been entrusted with the keys of his firstborn.
Just keeping the car up to his standards was a challenge all in itself. I can't count the number of times he asked me if I thought that car was my own personal trash can. Of course, I always thought it was immaculate. These small altercations I could handle, but there was one occurrence that I couldn't. As I drove through a parking lot in the dark of night something happened that changed my life.
My car came over the crown of a small hill, and the lights focused on a median. I hit the brakes. It was too late; the axle was bent and the frame pushed back. After arriving at the scene, my dad stood isolated in the parking lot with flames in his eyes. I was going to be disowned. After minutes that seemed hours, my dad came back to his car to go home. His devilish eyes suddenly had an ethereal coolness. His arm found its way around my shoulder. There was no doubt that he was upset, but his words and actions brought comfort. It proved to me that perhaps I am his baby.”
Prayer: “Heavenly Father, forgive my anger and help me see that love is the best path to forgiveness.”
Tom Strongman. Walking the Road
Tom Strongman is a journalist for the Kansas City Star, where he has been writing about cars for over twenty years. Tom lives in Leawood with his wife Susan, and enjoys having grandkids nearby.
No comments:
Post a Comment