I've never cared about cars--other than preferring not to drive a nice one. I have a knack for getting them scraped up and dented up in no time, or rather (as I have to constantly remind Bob), I have a knack for parking next to people that scrape and dent up my car in no time. It's so much less stressful to buy one already dented up.
Even though Bob has sold cars for 30 plus years, I've never picked out a car for myself. Before Bob bought my last car, I asked him what color it was (not that it mattered). He said it wasn't a color, per se, just brownish/grayish/greenish. After driving it for a few months, I could name the color: road dust. It was brilliant. It didn't matter if it was filthy or freshly washed, it looked the same.
I have a freakish fear of going through car washes. I slowly lurch up there, not quite trusting that the guy impatiently beckoning me in has my wheels lined up properly. I'm squirrelly about putting it in neutral at exactly the right time (I've been screamed at several times). I'm petrified I'll touch the steering wheel and get off the tracks and get stuck in there and then I get all worked up about the precise point I need to put it back in drive and squeal out of there in time to not get hit by the car behind me. All that anguish is not worth a clean car, so "road dust" is now my number one color choice.
Unfortunately, we reached a point with Brett that I could no longer lift him to put him in the car. We needed a van that could accomodate his wheelchair. Bob spent hours, upon hours looking for one. I was horrified by the prices and I hated the thought of giving up my beloved road dust colored car. Bob was willing to drive hundreds of miles to find an affordable van that would suit our needs but ended up not having to go anywhere at all. I could fill a page with the miraculous details of how God brought us the perfect van practically to our doorstep.
The first time I drove my God given van to work, it was cold and windy. After hauling out my luggage and heading to the bus stop, I heard the ominous click that signaled the door was opening and the ramp was being deployed. There is no stopping the process once it starts, so I had to stand there and watch the door slowly open, the ramp slowly spring out and then slowly lower itself to the ground. Bob told me the ramp would only work when the van was running and the button was pushed from the inside, so I got back in, started it up and hit the button to reverse the process. After I impatiently waited for it to sloooowwwly tuck itself back in and the door to click shut, I gathered my bags and headed back to the stop.
When I reached the stop, I (thankfully) looked back at the van and saw (to my horror) that the process had started again, the ramp was already springing out. Now I was running late and numb from the cold and I wanted to kick the sides in of this despicable, crazy, not road dust colored van.
When I finally made my check in, I was frustrated and freezing. I could hardly wait to tell Bob how little he knew about how the ramp worked and to hear how very, very sorry he felt for me.
I was a little ashamed at my level of animosity towards the van. What had happened to my gratitude? It was then that I realized what an absolute gift it was that I hadn't parked next to someone. In all my years of trying to find the closest spot in the employee lot, I'm pretty sure I have never parked next to an empty spot.
How much worse it would have been had that ramp popped out and bashed in the windows of the car next to me (twice!). The rest of the day I whispered prayers of gratitude for that empty spot, definitely a God thing. And, I'm happy to say, my gratitude for the van has returned as well. It has been a wonderful thing not to be marooned at home with Brett--and I am very, very grateful.
