The difference between me and Dave can be summed up in the church parking lot. When we pull in on a Sabbath morning, David instantly knows who’s there before he actually sees anybody. He just remembers what most people drive, particularly if they drive a pickup. And his vehicular powers don’t stop there. He can also remember what people used to drive, and he can halfway predict what they will be driving in the future. To him, a church parking lot is a map key or a coded message – it reveals all sorts of important information about the people around him. I can’t even begin to understand his talent; it’s as if he can see colors I can’t see or hear music that’s playing just beyond my reach.
Of course, his psychic abilities extend beyond Sundays. You don’t have to go to church for Dave to know where you’re at and what you’re doing. As he drives to work or attends a water meeting or drives by a field, he knows exactly who’s there and probably what they’re up to. He only needs to recognize their ride. Of course, farm equipment falls into the same category. He’d be much better at returning lost swathers to our neighbors than lost dogs.
Dave also measures historical time not so much by year as by pickup. For me, 1976 is the year of the bicentennial and the year my brother was born. To Dave, it’s the year his dad brought home their white standard four-wheel-drive pickup. A Ford, of course. In importance, he probably ranks that day right alongside the births of his own children. I’m not even going to speculate about which caused the greatest amount of excitement in his heart.
Back to the church parking lot. Just to be transparent, Dave and I do not drive to church together. This one fact alone might be the key to the duration of our marriage. I’m sure you are extremely interested to know how I arrive at church. I can promise you I don’t drive onto the asphalt perched high in a pickup truck, taking in a bird’s-eye view of who all is parked between the yellow lines. I’m not leisurely scoping out the make and model of every new vehicle on the lot.
No, I take a little different approach. I screech in at half past the time everyone else is already behind the church doors. I’m generally underbaked and over the speed limit, openly breaking the law on a holy day. Does that cancel the good church does me? I don’t know. I do know that inside the chapel, people are already singing the opening hymn, and I’m just hoping that for some intervening reason, the chorister decides to sing 24 verses. That way I can slip in the back before the prayer, and hopefully the bishop won’t see me. By the way, David is the bishop. It’s an unfortunate circumstance, make no mistake.
We all thought I’d get better at managing my Sunday mornings as the kids grew up. I don’t know why we thought that, as if I’d somehow become immune to being myself for one day of the week. Instead, at a quarter to showtime, I’m still trying to get the pot roast in the oven and the salad in the fridge. I need someone’s dress shoes found, and a shirt ironed – all before liftoff. It seems I cannot learn that I can’t do everything that I think I can in the time that I think I have, even when I make allowance for the things that I can’t know will happen that definitely will.
Not so long ago, I pulled into church, jumped out of the car and – by pure grace alone – looked down to make sure I was halfway put together: no toast crumbs running down my front, no signs of my slip hanging down past my hemline. “Sunday dress? Check. Old lady nylons? Check. Chicken-feeding boots? Check. Wait, chicken-feeding boots?! Oh, blankety, blank, blank, blank!”
“Michele!” I slapped my hand over my mouth, “Swearing in the church parking lot? What kind of lost cause are you?” There went more of my Sunday points, running down the drain like water. I jumped back into the car, tried to gauge how much over the speed limit this emergency situation justified and tore home to change out my boots for something a little less pew-de-barn. I knew the bishop would certainly be wondering if the cows were out or the house was on fire because I was definitely later than my usual late. But then I remembered that we’ve been married for 27 years. He wouldn’t start to panic for at least another hour.
The important point of my whole story is this question: In that scenario, did I have even a minute to look around me to see who or what was parked in the parking lot? Did I even know which car I was driving? Did I care?
Of course, Dave’s ability to absorb the mysteries of the vehicle universe doesn’t come out of thin air; he didn’t fall far from the apple tree, as it were. His dad can name every vehicle he’s ever owned, beginning with the first one his mom and dad bought. I mean, I can do the same thing – sort of. But in my lifetime, I’ve owned exactly five cars. At age 91, Dad Coleman can name at least 32 in order of acquisition, and that doesn’t even include all his farm equipment, tractors or manure trucks. He also remembers each beloved vehicle’s make, model, color, accessory package and personality. In fact, he can tell you what he was driving or being driven in for almost every event of his life. Many of the events of his life happened because he was driving, sometimes in vehicles and places he should not have been. On the other side of the coin, I can barely remember the year of the car I’m driving now. I think I’d settle for being able to figure out how to program it to get me to church on time.
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