the mustang

Learning how to drive is no small feat, but throw in a classic muscle car, and you've got a recipe for disaster. I mean, who even lets someone who only has a learner's permit to even touch the steering wheel of their baby?!

The answer is my dad.

I'd been showing great skill as a new driver is the only explanation I can give for his lapse in judgment. I mean, I hit the ball out of the park right off; I'd been able to make it to school clear across town from the DMV directly after passing my written exam without killing or injuring anyone. Mom just handed me the keys, and said, "You're driving," as if she didn't realize her life was now in my hands.

Fast forward a few weeks of being this dazzlingly safe driver not hitting anyone or anything. I was on top of the world. This driving thing was not such a big deal. I even survived driving on the road to the mall AKA the freeway without dying (although I did get close to hyperventilating and may or may not have been yelling in fear of how crazy it was and hated driving to the mall now). So of course, Dad would be proud of me. And I imagine to show that pride, he decided to invite me to drive his pride and joy, his powder yellow 1966 Mustang.

My initial reaction was something like, "Dad, are you sure you want me to drive that thing?" but translated that thought to saying aloud, "Sure, let's go."

Next thing I know, I am scooting the seat up as far as it will go in order to reach the pedals and looking at the shifter and wondering how you get through the gears without a clutch. Dad explained how to push in the little side button as you go up or down on the shifter, and I was amazed. I practiced, sitting there with my foot on the brake, just shifting. It seemed like a good preparation for this grand occasion of driving Dad's before then untouchable car. I was nervous at this point. Just pressing the gas pedal was telling me this car was way different than my mom's Volkswagen Golf I'd been driving. Eventually, Dad said it was time to get going. I think we were heading to pick up fountain drinks or a little groceries. I can't remember.

I claimed the courage to put that car in reverse and let off the brake and onto the gas, and BOOM! We went from 0 to what felt like 60 to 0 in what felt like two seconds flat—right into the side gate fencing that stuck out about three feet into our long and wide driveway.

Immediate eruption of yelling and cussing from Dad about how could I run into the fence like that, I would never drive his Mustang again, blah, blah, blah led to the first time I remember yelling right back. I told him loudly and logically, "How could I know the car would go so fast?" and "I've never driven an automatic before" and "You should have warned me" and "This is only the second car I've ever driven; Give me a break!" And you know what happened? Dad stopped in his tracks, looked around assessing the situation, and told me I was right, handed me the keys again, and said to try again but SLOWLY.

I can't describe how painfully slow I inched my way out of that driveway, but when I finally got out onto the blacktop and put that Mustang in drive, I never felt such satisfaction—until I got to go forward. Man alive, there's nothing quite like speeding down the road in a big hunk of roaring metal.

hitchhikers

The other day, I was talking with my oldest son about hitchhikers because we were watching a movie where the main character was hitchhiking, and we began commenting on how people just don't pick up hitchhikers anymore. It's just so dangerous. And it got me thinking about how it has probably always been pretty dangerous, but my dad didn't care about that kind of stuff. He was over six feet tall, leathery tan skin, and strong from being a carpenter. Maybe that helped him to not be afraid.

From a young age, I learned that Dad was just the type of guy who picked up hitchhikers. Well, maybe that's not completely accurate—he'd mostly stop for hitchhikers. Only sometimes did he risk his entire family's lives for the sake of those walking along streets and highways.

I remember clear as day us driving around town and driving to or from Mt. Charleston and driving to or from California and driving to or from anywhere, and if there was someone my dad saw walking or stranded, we'd stop. He'd ask where they were from and where they were headed, what they needed and how we could help. Sometimes, he'd help tinker with a broken down car or bicycle. Sometimes, they just needed someone to talk to, to check up on them, I think. One time, I remember on our way to Canada, we drove to the next town to pick up a part or something for a couple's car, and we drove back to drop it off. My mom was so irritated by this one. It put a serious delay in our trip's progress. It makes me laugh just thinking about her grumbling. She was so ancy on the way to our destinations and reluctant to leave on the way back home. But back to the point.

Sometimes, we'd actually pick the person (or people) up.

There was one time, we picked up a young adult couple. This one was fun to me for some reason. I was mystified by the young woman. She was just so tan and cool to me. On a side note, I actually have a cousin and her husband who remind me all the time of that couple we picked up and gave a ride to. They live in their van and mountain climb and travel all over. Maybe those two were just in between adventures when we picked them up.

The two people Dad picked up who I remember the most though are a father and daughter. My memory tells me that it was just me and Dad driving when we saw them walking along the blazing hot sidewalk on Nellis during one relentless Las Vegas summer.

Dad pulled over next to the little family walking and asked them if they needed a ride or a cool drink or some money. And next thing I know, they were getting into the van. The little girl sat next to me, and the dad was in the front passenger seat with my dad. I don't remember what they were saying exactly, but I think our next stop was to the Arco station to get giant 44-ouncers of soda pop with a ton of ice. That's something that could be from another memory, but it feels typical and probable. The next thing I remember is Dad driving us home and me taking the little girl to my room to play and her dad being welcomed into my parents' room to "cuss and discuss" as Dad would often call a discussion he was trying to lighten up.

The only other memory I have of the situation is how I shared my room with the girl for about two weeks (or so) while her father went back to where they were from and gathered their things and Dad helping line up a job for him when he got back to get his daughter. My parents gave the man money to get back home and back to Las Vegas to help him get on his feet.

I wish I knew the man's story, but I was truly too young to really comprehend it all. I just know I have a temporary sister out there somewhere that made my sisterless heart happy for a few weeks. And that my parents were amazing people who changed lives one person at time. And even more so that my dad was one brave dude picking up people and even bringing them home. What a way to be the Savior's hands.

peek-a-boo movies

I remember when I was little, when life seemed simpler and I didn't understand what was going on, how Dad would invite all of us little kids to scramble under my parents bedspread while he held up the covers, then he would begin the Peek-a-boo Movies. He'd tell us stories—very short stories as I recall—and he would build up our anticipation to always end with him shaking the covers wildly and saying boisterously, "Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo!" thus sending us wildly screaming and even more wildly acting like were trying to escape, totally mesmerized and paralyzed and laughing with slight fear because it was just so completely scary and silly for our tiny selves.

Those days are long gone and many, too many, hard things since have crowded out some of that innocent joy with Dad, but I want to capture the feeling and hold onto it. I want to forgive and let go of the sad, bad, and hard things in life that seem to try to erase any good. I want to love my father for all he tried to do right and accomplished. I want to remember how forgiveness works, and give him all I have and all I want for myself. 

whiplash

What a word whiplash is. It slaps you across the face just for uttering it.

I've had my share of neck issues, but this really is too much even though it could have been even worse. I am glad to still be functional for my children, yet I'm in pain as I do. It stems from someone not paying attention enough or not getting off their phone. It's been so hard on us to get into a car wreck. We were just getting settled in, and then this dreadful surprise came along.

Watching for what we can learn or gain from the experience is where I try to take myself when I begin to stress out about everything going on right now. Life is so very up in the air.

Whiplash isn't just about neck pain though. It can be what happens to us when we love someone who isn't ready or who throws away love with two hands. It hurts for real. You are never the same. You are disoriented for a good while. Have I left anything out?

Any which way you find whiplash in your life, I hope you will find comfort. I hope you will heal and be happy. I want those same things.

a hard life

You do what you know, right?
But what about when you've learned better?
Time and practice can change the world
Choices and change

When you see someone yelling
When you see someone silent and recoiling
When you see someone being mean
When you see someone retreating

What do you do
What should you do
What part of you comes to the surface
What version of yourself do people see

So many trials and setbacks and abuses
We can't even count
But if the tables were turned
Would you want to count yours

Life is hard
It's hard on the young and old
It's hard on the poor and lonely
Life tells us stories we don't want to know

You want more for yourself
But you don't know how to find it
Where do you find lost opportunity
The kinds you've never tasted

You pray.
You ask for forgiveness.
You beg and cry.
You wake up each day and try again.

Until one day—it's all too much.
And you stop.