There is an issue which has been distinctly troubling me for some time, and that is the whole debate over the roles of women in the church. I had laid this topic to rest some time ago, and now it's rearing its head again, and I find it's been taking up my thoughts. I've been doing a great deal of reading in the last few months (no surprise there) on Biblical topics (perhaps a little more surprising), and this one comes up more than you might think. Several writers for whom I have great respect are firm in their belief that women must not teach groups in which there are men, and may not be in leadership roles. I know the passages that this comes from, of course, but I also know that I still struggle with it! I suspect it has something to do with my being female...
Let me be clear--I have no taste for leadership myself, which is just as well because I'm not convinced anybody would follow me. I'm happy in my current roles and don't wish to change them. However, I am a teacher. Not to the large assembly in our church (which is very large indeed) but to other women and periodically to our small group, which contains both men and women. And I think that I'm not half bad at it. But I'd done so much reading on the subject that I was actually kind of unnerved--and certainly unfocused--this last week when I was leading the discussion, and fairly flubbed it. So you can tell this bothers me, and this may end up being a record-length post as a result. Sorry.
Things that make me think I should NOT be teaching: Paul said it, quite clearly, twice. There really isn't any other way to read those words except that women are to keep their traps shut in church. End of story. And no, I don't think that Paul was a misogynist, not at all, but his opinion on this is unmistakable. It's so easy to say that he was just a product of his time, and this is a cultural thing, and therefore we can ignore it. Up to a point, I do think that's true! On the other hand, it does open up a real slick path down some other slippery slopes. If you go with that, how do you draw the line and say this thing was just cultural but that thing is not? How do we know for a certainty which things were Paul's first century opinions and which things are actually from God? I'm not always comfortable making that distinction, especially over something which has such implications for what I personally do--I could be biased!
Things that make me think it's okay for me to be teaching: This list is, predictably, somewhat longer. For one, I do agree with Catherine Booth (of Salvation Army fame) that God gives gifts--even to women--to be used. I have been in leadership before, and been teaching for some time, and always get put in these positions because there is a need, and I'm able to fill it. I can see making a strong case for meeting the needs that arise if I have the skills and am asked to do so. So I have. And our small groups would suffer greatly if the women's voices were not heard. We have a fair amount of wisdom among the ladies, and I personally think God put it there.
From the cultural standpoint, Paul's prohibition in I Corinthians comes in the same letter as instructions about head coverings, or lack thereof. I don't think you could argue that those are not cultural issues, and largely passed by in non-muslim societies at this time. I have memories of seeing the Catholic neighbors wearing little tiny doilies on their heads as they went off to mass, and I somehow think that it's not exactly what Paul had in mind. It's not clear that anyone really knows what he meant with the comment about it being because of the angels, but I understand that women wore veils as a mark of their status of being married, showing their submission to one man in that relationship, and that makes sense. I guess my wedding ring serves the same function today perhaps. I do understand that the bulk of that portion of his letter to the Corinthians had to do with chaos in worship, but these days the chaos can come just as readily from the men!
And I just can't ignore Deborah. No matter how I vacillate in either direction, I keep coming back to Deborah, one of the judges of Israel. She won't be ignored! Deborah was a leader, even militarily, and was appointed by God for the task. We don't know what His justification for that outrageous appointment was, because He didn't say, but apparently Deb was the "best man for the job". There's also Aquila and his wife Priscilla pulling Apollos aside to teach him the way more accurately. Not just Aquila. Priscilla too. Is it possible that God still appoints women as He sees fit, giving them gifts and abilities to be used even in the instruction of men? I wouldn't want to be the one to tell God that He can't, that's for sure.
So I'm still pondering. I'm not willing to say that Paul was only speaking for that time in history when it came to this issue (it is included in Scripture, after all), although he most assuredly was correct about what was needed for that time and those circumstances, but at the same time I'm not willing to limit God on what He might decide to be doing in this day and age. I worry about starting down slippery slopes, because a great many people have proceeded me and made disasters that way in many areas. So what to do? I guess I'll keep reading, keep thinking, keep praying, and likely keep teaching until/unless I'm convinced otherwise, because there is a need, and I am able and have been requested to fill it for now. But I'm still troubled, because the one desire of my heart is to not be outside what God wants for me, as a wife and mother, but also as a teacher who desperately wants to handle accurately the Word of truth.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Cherrybomb
Is there anyone who doesn't love to wax nostalgic about their first car? I certainly do--she was a real character. The Cherrybomb (Cherry for short) was a 1963 push-button transmission Plymouth Valiant which had once been bright red but was pretty faded by the time I took possession. Cherry had a wonderfully simple slant-6 engine, and even I could deal adequately with some basics, like popping the hood and manually opening the choke when she didn't want to start. She often did not want to start.
Cherry developed a strange habit of beeping all by herself at one point, sitting alone in the driveway, so my dad disconnected the horn. Poor lonely Cherry! But she got her revenge, and succeeded in getting our attention too.
My parents' house was at the top of a hill, and the town was at the bottom. Once summer day I was coasting down the hill and when I got to the bottom I put on the brakes as I approached the upcoming intersection. Or at least I tried to. Cherry had lost her master cylinder, and my foot went straight to the floor and there was no stopping to be had. It was clear that I was going to sail right through that intersection with the red light hanging over it, and I realized that I couldn't even honk to warn people that I was coming. There was no horn any more. So I did the only thing I could think of, and turned right.
That slowed her down a little, but not enough, and after a couple more blocks I got to another intersection with a light, and so I again turned right. Cherry was going much slower at this point, but obviously was not going to stop all the way on her own, so I opened the door, jumped out, ran to the front, and stopped the car with my own body. People have fits when they hear this part, but I didn't think I was in any real danger, and apparently I was right, because Cherry came to a stop and I live to tell about it.
Dad got the master cylinder replaced, and decided that it would be a very good idea if I once again had a horn. So he installed one, but you didn't honk it by pressing on the steering wheel like you would with normal horns. Oh no, instead you pressed down on a big black button in the middle of the dashboard. It was unique, but entirely serviceable. So at the end of the summer I drove back to college, where all my friends were delighted with the big black horn button, and would honk it indiscriminately just for the fun of it. Between the horn and the push-button transmission, Cherry and I were celebrities, in our own minor way.
Cherry developed severe indigestion of the carburetor during my senior year, and I finally replaced her and let her go back to my home town with my dad before my final quarter in college. He sold her, and I have always wondered how long she lasted before she pooped out for good. But I needed something more reliable for my student teaching experience, so with great sadness I let her go. (The replacement had his own interesting personality, by the way, but that's for another day.)
It's tempting, as my daughter approaches driving, to supply her with something relatively new and safe and boring and trustworthy, but where would be the adventure in that? Nope, she needs my battered old van instead. Everybody needs to start out life with a junker. You need the character-building experiences that come with a doubtful old car, and the harrowing thrills that just compel you to prayer. Besides, how else would she collect the stories to tell her children? I couldn't possibly deprive her of that!
Love, Spud.
Cherry developed a strange habit of beeping all by herself at one point, sitting alone in the driveway, so my dad disconnected the horn. Poor lonely Cherry! But she got her revenge, and succeeded in getting our attention too.
My parents' house was at the top of a hill, and the town was at the bottom. Once summer day I was coasting down the hill and when I got to the bottom I put on the brakes as I approached the upcoming intersection. Or at least I tried to. Cherry had lost her master cylinder, and my foot went straight to the floor and there was no stopping to be had. It was clear that I was going to sail right through that intersection with the red light hanging over it, and I realized that I couldn't even honk to warn people that I was coming. There was no horn any more. So I did the only thing I could think of, and turned right.
That slowed her down a little, but not enough, and after a couple more blocks I got to another intersection with a light, and so I again turned right. Cherry was going much slower at this point, but obviously was not going to stop all the way on her own, so I opened the door, jumped out, ran to the front, and stopped the car with my own body. People have fits when they hear this part, but I didn't think I was in any real danger, and apparently I was right, because Cherry came to a stop and I live to tell about it.
Dad got the master cylinder replaced, and decided that it would be a very good idea if I once again had a horn. So he installed one, but you didn't honk it by pressing on the steering wheel like you would with normal horns. Oh no, instead you pressed down on a big black button in the middle of the dashboard. It was unique, but entirely serviceable. So at the end of the summer I drove back to college, where all my friends were delighted with the big black horn button, and would honk it indiscriminately just for the fun of it. Between the horn and the push-button transmission, Cherry and I were celebrities, in our own minor way.
Cherry developed severe indigestion of the carburetor during my senior year, and I finally replaced her and let her go back to my home town with my dad before my final quarter in college. He sold her, and I have always wondered how long she lasted before she pooped out for good. But I needed something more reliable for my student teaching experience, so with great sadness I let her go. (The replacement had his own interesting personality, by the way, but that's for another day.)
It's tempting, as my daughter approaches driving, to supply her with something relatively new and safe and boring and trustworthy, but where would be the adventure in that? Nope, she needs my battered old van instead. Everybody needs to start out life with a junker. You need the character-building experiences that come with a doubtful old car, and the harrowing thrills that just compel you to prayer. Besides, how else would she collect the stories to tell her children? I couldn't possibly deprive her of that!
Love, Spud.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
One Thing Led to Another...
It is impossible to describe the chain of thoughts that led to this post, because I have no clear remembrance of the path they took, but here we are. And just a warning, this gets a smidgen PG-13 at the end. Not that I expect Sammy is reading this or anything, but you never know. He's awfully smart.
Back when I did a study of Hebrews with some ladies last winter, I was tremendously helped along by a post by Ben Witherington on covenants. You can find it at http://benwitherington.blogspot.com, and the post is called Cutting a Covenant When The People Can't Cut It, from 10/27/2007. The extremely simplified version is that God's OT covenant with His people was typical of other covenants of the time between a suzerain and his subjects, which involved a blood sacrifice to open the covenant and both blessings if the terms are kept and curses if the terms are not. If you look at the last few chapters of Deuteronomy, this is exactly what it looks like. Well, needless to say, Israel spent many centuries of history not keeping the terms and therefore reaping the curses.
The bit that sends cold chills of "WOW!" up and down my spine is the part about Jesus exhausting that covenant by taking all the curses upon Himself, so is it no longer in force, and simultaneously, by being the blood sacrifice, inaugurating the new covenant in which we live today. Let me just say again--wow. It certainly shed new light on the book of Hebrews, let me tell you.
So where's that PG-13 part?!?!? Okay, here it is. Somehow, my thoughts wandered over to marriage. Maybe because I have one, maybe because my daughter is 15 and she may have one in the next decade also; who knows? But the fact is that Christian marriage is indeed a covenant relationship. All you have to do is to read the vows to see that this is true. And Dan Phillips makes the valid point that many marriages could be rehabilitated by people simply reading through those vows they made in front of God and their spouse and repenting of where they have failed and beginning to keep them. A wise man, Dan.
It occurred to me that one reason (among hundreds) that you marry as a virgin is that breaking the hymen is the blood that inaugurates that covenant. See? How often are you going to read THAT in a blog?! But it makes a lot of sense. And then you have sex with only that one person for the rest of your biological lives because that's in the covenant, and the curse sanctions are coming your way if you don't. If you have pre-marital sex, as most young adults do in our current hook-up culture, then you have already made that blood sacrifice with somebody else--not your spouse. I think the ancients knew this, and the knowledge was passed down through the centuries without the reasoning behind it. There are still come cultures today which require display of the wedding-night sheets to prove virginity, and if there is no blood then the marriage is invalid--the covenant is not in effect. It may still even be true here in America that non-consummation is a reason for annulment of a marriage. Can't say I've needed to look into that one!
Marriage is designed to be a reflection of our relationship with God, and to that effect we Christians are corporately called the bride of Christ. God is ever faithful, and we are called to imitate Him in this. There are probably lots of ways to continue this thinking, not only being faithful to our earthly spouses but faithful to God in opposition to all the things that try to pull us away from Him like full schedules, technology, cool new "spiritual" paths, whatever. But that's for another day, and for all His people to contemplate.
Love, Spud.
Back when I did a study of Hebrews with some ladies last winter, I was tremendously helped along by a post by Ben Witherington on covenants. You can find it at http://benwitherington.blogspot.com, and the post is called Cutting a Covenant When The People Can't Cut It, from 10/27/2007. The extremely simplified version is that God's OT covenant with His people was typical of other covenants of the time between a suzerain and his subjects, which involved a blood sacrifice to open the covenant and both blessings if the terms are kept and curses if the terms are not. If you look at the last few chapters of Deuteronomy, this is exactly what it looks like. Well, needless to say, Israel spent many centuries of history not keeping the terms and therefore reaping the curses.
The bit that sends cold chills of "WOW!" up and down my spine is the part about Jesus exhausting that covenant by taking all the curses upon Himself, so is it no longer in force, and simultaneously, by being the blood sacrifice, inaugurating the new covenant in which we live today. Let me just say again--wow. It certainly shed new light on the book of Hebrews, let me tell you.
So where's that PG-13 part?!?!? Okay, here it is. Somehow, my thoughts wandered over to marriage. Maybe because I have one, maybe because my daughter is 15 and she may have one in the next decade also; who knows? But the fact is that Christian marriage is indeed a covenant relationship. All you have to do is to read the vows to see that this is true. And Dan Phillips makes the valid point that many marriages could be rehabilitated by people simply reading through those vows they made in front of God and their spouse and repenting of where they have failed and beginning to keep them. A wise man, Dan.
It occurred to me that one reason (among hundreds) that you marry as a virgin is that breaking the hymen is the blood that inaugurates that covenant. See? How often are you going to read THAT in a blog?! But it makes a lot of sense. And then you have sex with only that one person for the rest of your biological lives because that's in the covenant, and the curse sanctions are coming your way if you don't. If you have pre-marital sex, as most young adults do in our current hook-up culture, then you have already made that blood sacrifice with somebody else--not your spouse. I think the ancients knew this, and the knowledge was passed down through the centuries without the reasoning behind it. There are still come cultures today which require display of the wedding-night sheets to prove virginity, and if there is no blood then the marriage is invalid--the covenant is not in effect. It may still even be true here in America that non-consummation is a reason for annulment of a marriage. Can't say I've needed to look into that one!
Marriage is designed to be a reflection of our relationship with God, and to that effect we Christians are corporately called the bride of Christ. God is ever faithful, and we are called to imitate Him in this. There are probably lots of ways to continue this thinking, not only being faithful to our earthly spouses but faithful to God in opposition to all the things that try to pull us away from Him like full schedules, technology, cool new "spiritual" paths, whatever. But that's for another day, and for all His people to contemplate.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
For the Big Red Dude
Eighteen years ago today, at 23 minutes past midnight, I gave birth. It had been a textbook pregnancy, resulting in Kevin appearing on his due date, and the first indication I had that he had arrived was the nurses exclaiming "Look at that red hair!". It was a little while before anyone thought to mention that he was a boy-- that glorious hair took all the attention.
Should I have caught on at the hospital? He had an unusual cry--like a tiny sheep's bahhhh, and I could always tell when his bassinet was being wheeled down the hall towards me. He had ear tags, a glioma, and a lack of ability to suck--not a good thing in a newborn who really can't take nutrition any other way. After we went home, it wasn't long before Kevin developed his very first infection and raging colic. Oh boy. Colic. Six months of screaming, four months of going in to work with very little sleep in my history.
Then one morning, I awoke in the morning to the sound of silence and the realization that I had not been up in the night. Horrified, I ran into the nursery, convinced that my baby had perished in the night, for what other possible explanation could there be? No, Kevin had just been sleeping, and he woke up then and smiled at me. Glory be!
Colic had fled, but within a few days the constant illnesses began. My dad had videotaped Kevin on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart to watch them now because you can almost see Kevin go downhill as infection followed infection. At nine months I began to say to the pediatrician "There's something wrong here", but it wasn't until his second birthday that anyone else agreed with me. Every weekday off for years was spent in the office of one doctor or another-- the pediatrician, specialists, hospital clinics-- and there were times when I didn't think we'd get to keep him; surely one of these infections, one of these seizures, one of these weeks of fever would take him away, surely more than seven years of intestinal issues would take their toll and his body would give up.
Kevin is a little over six feet in height now. He's goofy, happy, sunshiny, and (except for the whole progressive neurological disease thing) quite healthy. The bright red hair still shines, his eyes twinkle, and he has friends wherever he goes. I am frequently astonished at the number of people who really deeply care about Kevin and what happens to him, and profoundly grateful too. He will never drive, never get married, never have that independence which we all wish for our children. There will always be caretakers, appointments, and "durable medical equipment".
So to all the therapists, audiologists, doctors, nurses, case managers, social workers, special teachers, teachers aides, Sunday school teachers, camp counsellors, friends, relatives and even perfect strangers who have given time, help, and love to Kevin, we give our deepest thanks. You'll never know what a difference you've made.
And to Kevin--Happy Birthday, sweetie. You are my sunshine indeed.
Love, Spud.
Should I have caught on at the hospital? He had an unusual cry--like a tiny sheep's bahhhh, and I could always tell when his bassinet was being wheeled down the hall towards me. He had ear tags, a glioma, and a lack of ability to suck--not a good thing in a newborn who really can't take nutrition any other way. After we went home, it wasn't long before Kevin developed his very first infection and raging colic. Oh boy. Colic. Six months of screaming, four months of going in to work with very little sleep in my history.
Then one morning, I awoke in the morning to the sound of silence and the realization that I had not been up in the night. Horrified, I ran into the nursery, convinced that my baby had perished in the night, for what other possible explanation could there be? No, Kevin had just been sleeping, and he woke up then and smiled at me. Glory be!
Colic had fled, but within a few days the constant illnesses began. My dad had videotaped Kevin on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart to watch them now because you can almost see Kevin go downhill as infection followed infection. At nine months I began to say to the pediatrician "There's something wrong here", but it wasn't until his second birthday that anyone else agreed with me. Every weekday off for years was spent in the office of one doctor or another-- the pediatrician, specialists, hospital clinics-- and there were times when I didn't think we'd get to keep him; surely one of these infections, one of these seizures, one of these weeks of fever would take him away, surely more than seven years of intestinal issues would take their toll and his body would give up.
Kevin is a little over six feet in height now. He's goofy, happy, sunshiny, and (except for the whole progressive neurological disease thing) quite healthy. The bright red hair still shines, his eyes twinkle, and he has friends wherever he goes. I am frequently astonished at the number of people who really deeply care about Kevin and what happens to him, and profoundly grateful too. He will never drive, never get married, never have that independence which we all wish for our children. There will always be caretakers, appointments, and "durable medical equipment".
So to all the therapists, audiologists, doctors, nurses, case managers, social workers, special teachers, teachers aides, Sunday school teachers, camp counsellors, friends, relatives and even perfect strangers who have given time, help, and love to Kevin, we give our deepest thanks. You'll never know what a difference you've made.
And to Kevin--Happy Birthday, sweetie. You are my sunshine indeed.
Love, Spud.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Daddeeeeee!
Well, all right, that was a little more than a week. But after it was over I had to get ready to leave town, and then we went out of town, and then we came back and I had to deal with all the mess which results from having been out of town, and so here it is ten days later. Such is life.
My son has made a recording on his cell phone of my home-coming from work one day lately. First you hear his voice:
"Mommeeeeee!" and then you hear mine:
"Kevinnnnnn!" And all sorts of good cheer breaks loose, because Mommy and Kevin are both home.
I've heard this recording a lot, because it makes my son very happy, so he plays it for me a great deal. So it has become this curious combination of tedious and heartwarming, but I do understand why he plays it again and again. This is love and joy and security to him, and I am so pleased I can give him that. There are so many things that I can't give him; I'm grateful for this one.
This last Thursday, our Bible study group had a discussion about the fact that we bring God pleasure. Personally, thinking about myself, I tend to find this unlikely! What on earth about me could bring God pleasure? The Bible says that I do, and that I am his workmanship, but it really doesn't seem reasonable to me most days. I know myself too well, and all my little dark parts.
But then I got to thinking about my kids. You know, don't tell them, but they are just chock full of faults. They are imperfect in multitudinous ways, just as I am. In a sense, they got that from me! There are times when they drive me just straight up the wall. But I have to admit, even on their very worst days I still love them to pieces. Why? I guess because they are mine, and my husband's, and I am committed to them, come what may. But mostly because they are mine.
Tomorrow, I will study John 20 with a couple of friends. Reading this passage to get ready for the study, I came across the part that always always brings me to tears. It's when Mary of Magdala, her eyes full of tears and her heart full of deepest sorrow, is looking for the body of Jesus. She pours out her sadness to He whom she supposes to be the gardener, and then a very sweet thing happens. He says her name. And she instantly knows it is her Lord. Oh goodness, I can't even imagine the joy she felt, in extreme contrast to the sorrow of the moment before. Jesus must have put a wealth of love and all the joy of heaven in that word "Mary", and sometimes, when I read it, I can hear a little chuckle too, because He knew how it would affect her, and how radically her life would change. In fact, how radically everything had changed, for everybody, Jesus' death and resurrection altered history on so many levels that I can't even comprehend it; it certainly altered my history!
That one word moves me, every time I read it. It's just a name, and a common one at that, but I think I may finally have a handle on why I get so emotional about it. It's related to that phone recording--it sounds like love to me. Jesus must have called me by name, because at one point I heard Him and recognized His voice, and I follow Him. When I read about Him saying "Mary" in that chapter, I can hear Him say my name too, and I rejoice, just like that faithful woman long ago, because my Lord lives and loves me. So I go where He leads me, like a good little sheep.
And that's how I think I bring God pleasure, just by answering His call. I am His!
Love, Spud.
My son has made a recording on his cell phone of my home-coming from work one day lately. First you hear his voice:
"Mommeeeeee!" and then you hear mine:
"Kevinnnnnn!" And all sorts of good cheer breaks loose, because Mommy and Kevin are both home.
I've heard this recording a lot, because it makes my son very happy, so he plays it for me a great deal. So it has become this curious combination of tedious and heartwarming, but I do understand why he plays it again and again. This is love and joy and security to him, and I am so pleased I can give him that. There are so many things that I can't give him; I'm grateful for this one.
This last Thursday, our Bible study group had a discussion about the fact that we bring God pleasure. Personally, thinking about myself, I tend to find this unlikely! What on earth about me could bring God pleasure? The Bible says that I do, and that I am his workmanship, but it really doesn't seem reasonable to me most days. I know myself too well, and all my little dark parts.
But then I got to thinking about my kids. You know, don't tell them, but they are just chock full of faults. They are imperfect in multitudinous ways, just as I am. In a sense, they got that from me! There are times when they drive me just straight up the wall. But I have to admit, even on their very worst days I still love them to pieces. Why? I guess because they are mine, and my husband's, and I am committed to them, come what may. But mostly because they are mine.
Tomorrow, I will study John 20 with a couple of friends. Reading this passage to get ready for the study, I came across the part that always always brings me to tears. It's when Mary of Magdala, her eyes full of tears and her heart full of deepest sorrow, is looking for the body of Jesus. She pours out her sadness to He whom she supposes to be the gardener, and then a very sweet thing happens. He says her name. And she instantly knows it is her Lord. Oh goodness, I can't even imagine the joy she felt, in extreme contrast to the sorrow of the moment before. Jesus must have put a wealth of love and all the joy of heaven in that word "Mary", and sometimes, when I read it, I can hear a little chuckle too, because He knew how it would affect her, and how radically her life would change. In fact, how radically everything had changed, for everybody, Jesus' death and resurrection altered history on so many levels that I can't even comprehend it; it certainly altered my history!
That one word moves me, every time I read it. It's just a name, and a common one at that, but I think I may finally have a handle on why I get so emotional about it. It's related to that phone recording--it sounds like love to me. Jesus must have called me by name, because at one point I heard Him and recognized His voice, and I follow Him. When I read about Him saying "Mary" in that chapter, I can hear Him say my name too, and I rejoice, just like that faithful woman long ago, because my Lord lives and loves me. So I go where He leads me, like a good little sheep.
And that's how I think I bring God pleasure, just by answering His call. I am His!
Love, Spud.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Could I Be Related to Typhoid Mary?
If there's anyone actually reading this thing, it will be silent a little bit longer. Due to an interesting little variety of illnesses, I am the only one of four staff people in my office this week, and for once I am busy! I love it! But it means I don't have a lot of time for other things, like making postings. So come back in about a week, and I'll see what I can do.
Love, Spud.
Love, Spud.
Friday, June 27, 2008
I Drive a Stealth Van
Seriously. It's invisible to mortal eyes. It's bright red and big as a barn, but when you look, it just isn't there.
That's the only explanation I can come up with for the state of this poor minivan which I drive. It has numerous dents, dings, divots, scrapes, and a few growing rust spots. There are a lot of little dimples from the hail storms back in 2002, and missing paint all over the place. It looks really disreputable, and at some point my much-tried husband probably won't let me park it in front of the house any more. It's that bad.
I park it every day in a parking garage at work, and that's where the vast majority of the damage has occurred. There's always a big dent in the rear lift-gate where someone has backed into it. I'll come out of my office at the end of the day to discover a new one. I used to get these fixed, at great personal expense, but I gave it up as a bad job, because every time I paid to get that dent removed, some other klutzy driver would come along and replace it. I never see this happen, of course, because I'm at work. I just see the results. There's another big bowl-shaped dent in the passenger side now, but I did that myself. When my parking garage was closed last summer I had to use another one down the street which has strange traffic patterns and some very tight turns. I misjudged the tightest turn on my second day parking there, and got a wall with the side, and now there is a huge dent there to commemorate the occasion forever. But most of the damage has been caused by others. I can only assume it's because the van is invisible.
For instance--I have been rear-ended twice at stoplights. Why? I'm bright red and big as a barn! You'd think that would help, but it doesn't. People just don't see me. I've also been backed into at stoplights this calendar year--twice--the latest episode being just yesterday. I was waiting in line to exit the gas station (gas was only $3.83!) and the woman in front of me suddenly started going backwards at a fairly good rate of speed. In other words, it was on purpose, not just an accidental roll. I did the only thing I could--I applied myself with vigor to my horn. She slammed on her brakes, but too late. WHACK! Into my front bumper. The woman got out of her car to check damage (maybe a small scratch to her car, a much larger one to mine of course) and screamed "I thought you could SEE me!" and got back into her car and drove away.
This was deeply puzzling. Of course I could see her coming, but there wasn't a single thing in the world I could do about it. I can only imagine that, per usual, she couldn't see ME. Or I appeared so small and insignificant that perhaps my presence wouldn't actually matter in any way. My barn on wheels has gone stealth again, apparently.
Next year, when my daughter gets her driver's license, the van will be hers. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it's magnificently pre-disastered, and since she has the shortest commute it makes sense that she'll drive the car with the lowest gas mileage. And since it's a big van just loaded with airbags, if anything hits her (or, let's be realistic, if she hits anything) the chances for personal bodily damage are low. So it makes sense. On the other hand, with that thing being invisible the way that it is, the chances are more than good that at some point she will indeed have a collision of some kind with someone who just didn't know she was there. Good luck kiddo, you're going to need it.
Love, Spud.
That's the only explanation I can come up with for the state of this poor minivan which I drive. It has numerous dents, dings, divots, scrapes, and a few growing rust spots. There are a lot of little dimples from the hail storms back in 2002, and missing paint all over the place. It looks really disreputable, and at some point my much-tried husband probably won't let me park it in front of the house any more. It's that bad.
I park it every day in a parking garage at work, and that's where the vast majority of the damage has occurred. There's always a big dent in the rear lift-gate where someone has backed into it. I'll come out of my office at the end of the day to discover a new one. I used to get these fixed, at great personal expense, but I gave it up as a bad job, because every time I paid to get that dent removed, some other klutzy driver would come along and replace it. I never see this happen, of course, because I'm at work. I just see the results. There's another big bowl-shaped dent in the passenger side now, but I did that myself. When my parking garage was closed last summer I had to use another one down the street which has strange traffic patterns and some very tight turns. I misjudged the tightest turn on my second day parking there, and got a wall with the side, and now there is a huge dent there to commemorate the occasion forever. But most of the damage has been caused by others. I can only assume it's because the van is invisible.
For instance--I have been rear-ended twice at stoplights. Why? I'm bright red and big as a barn! You'd think that would help, but it doesn't. People just don't see me. I've also been backed into at stoplights this calendar year--twice--the latest episode being just yesterday. I was waiting in line to exit the gas station (gas was only $3.83!) and the woman in front of me suddenly started going backwards at a fairly good rate of speed. In other words, it was on purpose, not just an accidental roll. I did the only thing I could--I applied myself with vigor to my horn. She slammed on her brakes, but too late. WHACK! Into my front bumper. The woman got out of her car to check damage (maybe a small scratch to her car, a much larger one to mine of course) and screamed "I thought you could SEE me!" and got back into her car and drove away.
This was deeply puzzling. Of course I could see her coming, but there wasn't a single thing in the world I could do about it. I can only imagine that, per usual, she couldn't see ME. Or I appeared so small and insignificant that perhaps my presence wouldn't actually matter in any way. My barn on wheels has gone stealth again, apparently.
Next year, when my daughter gets her driver's license, the van will be hers. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it's magnificently pre-disastered, and since she has the shortest commute it makes sense that she'll drive the car with the lowest gas mileage. And since it's a big van just loaded with airbags, if anything hits her (or, let's be realistic, if she hits anything) the chances for personal bodily damage are low. So it makes sense. On the other hand, with that thing being invisible the way that it is, the chances are more than good that at some point she will indeed have a collision of some kind with someone who just didn't know she was there. Good luck kiddo, you're going to need it.
Love, Spud.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)