1997, Signal Mountain, Tennessee

By Marla H. Thurman

“Thanks for the ride, Joy,” I said to my friend as she dropped me off outside the church. She had come to get me early on this Sunday morning so I could teach my Sunday school class and then attend church with my congregation. My car had died a few days earlier and it had already been hauled off to the automobile graveyard. It wasn’t coming back.

I was blessed. When my friends heard that my car died they all rushed to assure me they were ready and willing to take me to church or the grocery – any place I needed to go until I could find a new car and get around independently again.

I was grateful, but I knew something most of my friends didn’t: the balance in my bank account. I couldn’t even begin to look for a car. I was flat broke, having spent what little savings I’d had in the last year paying for constant repairs and tows on the car that was now just another piece of crushed metal in a scrap yard.

I waved to Joy as she drove away and I headed off to my Sunday school class. I spent the next hour talking with my high school students about the moral issues surrounding underage drinking. Immersed in the discussion, I went the entire class time without a single thought about my transportation woes.

After Sunday school I walked with everyone else into the sanctuary of the church and found a seat. It was around that time that my mind began to wander. Even as I sang hymns and recited common prayers I felt moments of fear for what was to come.

How would I ever get enough money for another car? How would I get to work? How would I visit friends or family or get to the doctor? What if I never got another car again? People would tire of providing rides for me sooner or later, that was certain.

How long did I have? Would God see to my needs?

The fear so consumed my thoughts that I was actually surprised when church was over. I headed toward the parish life center where we had coffee each week after church. This might be the last time I get to see anybody for a while, I thought.

My friend Jack approached me as I entered the room and said, “Hey, why don’t you come home and have lunch with me today?”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But I’d need a ride home afterwards.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack laughed. “It’s my turn to give you a ride anyway. You worry too much, you know that?”

“Yeah, well,” I replied. “Sometimes there’s just a lot to worry about.”

During a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cheese crackers, Jack and I talked about a little of everything. I groaned inwardly when Jack brought the conversation around to my transportation problem.

“You’ll probably need to know how to drive a stick if you’re going car shopping,” Jack said.

“I guess,” I responded, knowing I wouldn’t be shopping any time soon.

“I can teach you,” Jack offered. “It’s easy.”

I frowned. “I don’t know, Jack.”

He stood up. “Let’s wash these dishes and I’ll take you for your first lesson.”

I hadn’t expected to start right away, but I certainly didn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of the day at home alone.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “I hope you’re patient. I don’t know how good a student I’ll be.”

Outside I looked from Jack’s Toyota Forerunner to his Ford Thunderbird. “Which car?”

“Let’s go with the Thunderbird,” Jack answered. “It’ll be a little easier, I think.”

I went to the passenger side and waited on Jack to unlock the door.

“You plan on learning anything from that side of the car?” Jack asked.

“Well, seeing as how I’ve never driven a stick, ever, I thought you were going to drive us to some dirt road to practice.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Jack. “The first lesson starts with learning how to back up. Reverse is the easiest gear.”

I sighed loudly enough for Jack to hear, but I went around to the driver’s side and climbed behind the wheel. Reverse, it turned out, was simple. I only needed two tries to get the car backed out of the driveway. After that, though, I was stuck. I killed the engine every time I tried to get out of first gear.

Thankfully, Jack had an idea. We traded places and before I knew it we were perched on a very steep hill in the middle of nowhere. Jack put the car in park and pulled the emergency brake. “OK,” he said.

I again traded places with Jack, complaining. “I could kill us, you know. I’ll never make it up this hill without knowing how to use the clutch.”

“Exactly,” Jack said, settling into the passenger seat. “That’s why we’re going to stay right here in this spot and not go up the hill at all.”

That was almost exactly what we did, too. For the next 20 minutes I perched the car on the hill and, using only the clutch and the gas, balanced the car on that incline. When the car started to roll down the hill Jack would say, “A little more gas, now.”

And if I started moving forward Jack would say, “A little less gas … balance … balance … perfect!”

Balancing on that hill turned out to be the single most valuable lesson I would learn about driving a stick shift. Once I mastered the balancing act – and I did master it, thanks to Jack’s persistence and patience - Jack taught me all about shifting gears while driving. For an hour and a half all we did was back the car out of the driveway, balance the car on a hill, and drive a straight road and learn to shift gears.

“Now for a test,” Jack said. He directed me around a few back roads and before I knew it we were pulling out onto the highway.

“I can’t drive this thing on the highway!” I shouted, even as I started down the road.

“Somebody’s doing it,” Jack grinned.

Jack turned out to be quite the taskmaster. He made me drive all the way from our small town of Signal Mountain, Tennessee to Dunlap, the next town over. This was no easy feat for a first-time stick-shift driver, and the trek was all mountain. The first half of the trip was downhill. I drove the speed limit at Jack’s insistence, but I wanted very much to drive slowly. The drive back up Signal Mountain was quite frightening, but I did really well. I only stalled the motor twice and I only panicked once.

“Jack!” I screamed as the engine stalled on a hairpin curve. “I’m stuck and there’s no way to back down!”

“Just take a deep breath,” Jack said. I did. Jack then guided me through the tough curve and I was incredibly relieved for the rest of the drive. I even started to feel a little bit confident.

By the time Jack and I got back to his house I was educated but exhausted and I said as much.

“Well,” Jack said, “At least now you know you can test-drive a straight shift if you need to.”

“That’s true,” I agreed. “I’m glad I learned.”

“Come in for a while,” Jack urged.

I really didn’t want to go in. I wanted to go home and take a nap. Jack was my transportation, though, and I had to wait until he was ready.

“OK.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack teased, sensing my hesitation. “I’ll get you home soon enough. I just want you to read something.”

“You want me to read something? What? Are you going to make me read how a clutch works? Because, really Jack, I can’t understand all that technical stuff.”

“It’s not anything about cars.” He waved me inside ahead of him and told me to wait for him at the dining room table. I sat, wondering what was up. When Jack came back a minute or two later he was carrying a Bible and a folded piece of paper.

“Did you pay attention to the gospel reading today at church?” he asked, flipping the book open.

“Umm . . . no,” I said, a little sheepishly. “I was distracted. I was thinking about how to fix my life.”

“Ha!” Jack said. “The Gospels tell us everything we need to ‘fix’ whatever goes wrong.” Jack handed me the open Bible and pointed. “Read that verse.”

“What is it?”

“I ain’t got all day,” Jack said, rolling his eyes. “Just read the verse.”

I looked. It was from the gospel of Luke. Chapter three, verse eleven. I read aloud. “And he answered and said to them, ‘If you have two coats, give one to your neighbor who does not have even one; and if you have meat, share that with your neighbor, too.’”

I looked at Jack. “OK.”

“You see what you miss when you don’t pay attention at church?” Jack laughed. He took the book from me. “Let’s get you home.”

Outside, Jack tossed me the keys to the Thunderbird. “You drive.”

I got in, tired of driving but knowing I needed the practice. Besides, who knew when I’d get the opportunity to drive again?
Jack came up to the driver’s side window. “Listen,” Jack said, leaning on the window. “I only got one coat and I like it.”
I blinked, not understanding.

“What I do have is two cars.”

I looked at him, confused. Then, as if this was the most natural thing in the world, Jack handed me the folded piece of paper he had carried into the dining room a few minutes earlier. It was the title to the Thunderbird. “Just sign on the dotted line.” He pulled a pen from his pocket.

I remembered the line from Luke’s Gospel then and realized what Jack was doing.

“But–“ I faltered.

“But nothing,” Jack said. “You want I should go back to that church next week and face our pastor if I don’t even listen to the message? Not me, my friend. Now, would you kindly sign this title so I can go take a nap before dinner?”

I got home, 30 minutes later, all by myself, happy and safe.

God had, indeed, seen to my needs.

Marla H. Thurman lives in Signal Mountain, Tennessee, her hometown, with her two dogs, Oreo and Sleeper. She has published numerous reflections and articles in Sage of Consciousness Magazine, The East Tennessee Catholic, The National Catholic Reporter, InSync Magazine and more. Her dream is that one day her favorite author, Pat Conroy, will ask for her autograph.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, March 5th, 2007 | Email This Post

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