My Car Has A Name

I am not a religious person. For those of you out there who are, perhaps I should preface this story with a disclaimer: all musings contained herein are meant to be obnoxious, or maybe just a little annoying, but are not meant to insult. If you are insulted, perhaps you and the guy who played Chef in South Park should get together. Of course, I am not trying to compare myself to the writers of South Park, but I do think if you can’t take a little humor at the expense of your religion may need to look inward to the source of the discomfort (are you offended at my ignorance or your own doubt in your faith?).

So anyhow, sometime this past Friday, Good Friday to be exact, I last drove my car. I suppose my younger son had played in it for a while, turning on and off various lights and messing with the wipers. Well, Saturday, it wasn’t driven. But today, on Easter Sunday, I had to drive my cousin to his friend’s house so they could drive back to Kentucky (where they go to college). We needed to get to his place at 3, so at 2:15, we loaded up the car and I went to start it. I got in the driver’s seat and found that the clock and odometer were blank (normally a digital display).

Uh-oh, I thought. That’s not good. And sure enough, my car wouldn’t start. Great. We let the kids play on the playground while we tried to use the battery-powered jump starter that my dad got me sometime in the past year and that my husband had mocked. Unfortunately, neither of us was entirely sure how to connect it, and with that doubt, we decided not to proceed. Research was in order.

I looked through the manual. Nothing. I looked online. Nothing. I went inside and found the receipt for when I got the battery last summer. I tried calling the place, but they were closed. Argh. My patience grew thinner and thinner. I grew more frustrated with each passing minute. My cousin called his friend, who agreed to come pick him up, so at least I wouldn’t be making him get back to college too late. A few minutes later my husband came home from work and, after changing out of his shirt and tie (his “fancy clothes”, as my elder son likes to call it), jump started my car.

And now, it works. We had to go to dinner, but after returning, I took it for a drive, and it is fine. I know, not a very exciting story. Rather ordinary, in fact.

But here’s the thing. My car died on Good Friday and came back to life on Easter. Does that sound familiar to you? You may say that it was just a coincidence, but was it really? Or was it a sign that my faith has been misguided (or, well, non-existent) for too long. And a savior has been born (again).

And so, from now on (or at least until I get my minivan), my car shall be called Jesus. Or maybe just J.C. Believe!

p.s. I know I haven't posted in over a week, and you're looking at this and thinking "THIS is what she came back with?!" Sorry. I promise to do better next time.