the dirty laundry show

The harder I tried to hold back my tears, the harder they fell. Oh God, not here. The salty droplets pooled at the rims of my eyelids and spilled down my cheeks, which were quickly blushing an embarrassed bright red. I attempted to steel my voice, determined that the man on the other end of the phone line wouldn’t catch onto my emotional state. Suddenly, my voice cracked, and all was lost. Right there, in the middle of the Missoula post office, I was having a breakdown.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, making a hard left turn from the stern judgment he’d steadily heaped on me for the previous several minutes. “I’m sure this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”

What an unbelievable understatement. The absolute last thing we needed right now was to lose one of our two family vehicles. How would we manage our weekly schedule? How would Nick get to yoga class so he could teach when I needed to get the kids to orthodontist appointments and activities? How would we navigate June’s upcoming afternoon acting camp with one (gracefully aging) truck between us? There was just no way.

Cutting through my whirlwind of anxieties and questions, the mechanic droned on about my next options. He stumbled over his words, awkwardly trying to fill any empty space in the conversation created by my falling apart. I couldn’t retain any of the information coming at me. I thanked him and rushed to end the phone call, shoving the device in my pocket and wiping my eyes. But even as I stood in line and finally mailed off my package, the tears would not stop forming. This explosion of emotion wanted out, no matter how annoyed I felt about it.

Once I’d finished my task, I walked back out into the gently falling snow. I turned the key in the driver door lock – the only lock that still worked on Nick’s truck – climbed into the seat, and let the rest of my weariness tumble out in torrents. I cried out of fear and uncertainty – that Nick would ever forgive me for hitting a rock in the road and totaling our car; that we’d be able to make it without a second vehicle. I cried out of shame and guilt for what I’d done, enduring what seemed like a perfectly avoidable and stupid accident. Why the f&ck didn’t I swerve, like any sane person would’ve done?!

It didn’t help to entertain questions of “why” and “if only…” I knew that. I let the self-pity suck me in just for a moment, as long as it took to drive the six miles home. It would take longer than that to stop tearing up every time the story came out, to trust myself as a capable driver again, and to believe the understanding and grace in my husband’s response. But do you trust me? How can you not feel even a little bit angry that I put us in this impossible situation?

I wanted him to be mad at me, because I was mad at me. I must’ve said sorry a thousand times for making such a dumb mistake, one with real, immediate consequences for all of us. He stayed steady in his resolve, yet again a living model of Jesus to someone still struggling to trust in the unconditional acceptance of a Savior in light of all my maaaany missteps. In the next few weeks, I experienced the love and care of that Savior in miraculous ways.

In Nick’s constant flexibility as we shared his car to juggle all of our commitments.

In the fairly new friend who offered us his car (and eventually sold it to us), no questions asked, just in time to manage June’s acting camp obligations.

In the insurance settlement we received for my Toyota, which paid for our “new” ride with enough left over to sustain us through the summer when my work load lightened.

In the fact that we finally have two paid off vehicles, which has been our goal since we bought my car (by the skin of our teeth) just after June was born.

In the conversations about faith and trust in God that I got to have with my kids in the interim.

This wasn’t the way I imagined the story going. But nobody asked me. For a gal who’s pretty used to things going my way, this was a long, painful lesson in letting go – of the outcome, of my own personal comfort, of the concept that “my” belongings belong to me and that I deserve to have them. It was humbling to drive an old, rusty truck around and need to ask before going anywhere. It was humbling to accept the gift of another used car and be truly grateful to have anything at all.

It feels strange to say, but I miss aspects of that time period when I didn’t have a car. I miss the dependence I felt on Him, the new depths of faith He dug into me – someone who often has no use for faith in a lifestyle where I’m able to buy or get whatever I need without a lot of prayer. For once, my faith felt real and useful. It was my only recourse, a lifeline to get me through every day and each moment. It was precious, and it didn’t last long after I got back in the saddle – although I trust that its effects will endure in the form of greater perseverance during times to come (Romans 5:3).

I still wonder, as anyone would, why things unfolded the way they did. I tell myself that maybe this mishap was really a means of protection against some other worse mishap we might’ve endured. Or maybe it was just one of those exasperating things that go wrong in life.

Either way, I find comfort in remembering that God knew what would transpire before I even saw that rock in the road. He orchestrated each leg of the journey before it began. Ultimately, He restored to us our two-car lifestyle and “worked it out for our good” (Romans 8:28).

But I’m learning this to be true: even if He hadn’t restored us to our former level of comfort, His plan would be no less good and trustworthy. May the Spirit keep that at the forefront of my mind, no matter what missteps I make next.

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Hey! Do you have a story of God’s faithfulness you’d like to share? I’d love to help you get it out there in a new publication I’m cooking up. Reach out to me at LEKGonzalez@gmail.com.