Life without Brakes

“So what am I supposed to do again?” I asked my father for the third time. My car had been making a terrible noise for a couple of days. It is the sound of metal against metal… the kind of noise that told me there was a problem.

Before I left for YWAM, while I was still in college, my dad almost forced me to help him change the brakes of the 93’ Pontiac Transport SE (aka the spaceship or dustbuster). It was a project I figured I would never have to repeat.

A few days ago I decided that in order to get rid of this terrible screeching, I would have to change the brakes again… only this time, my dad wouldn’t be able to troubleshoot anything that could possibly go wrong. Even though he wasn’t there, I was confident that it would be a breeze. But within minutes, even before I took the first wheel off, I was talking to my dad on the phone, getting information, insight, and guidance. He walked me through each step, told me in detail about each of the parts and how they worked. We hung up and I put my hands to the limited and rusty tools I found in my uncle’s garage. Time passed, but before I knew it, I had my dad on the line again. Another problem, another piece of guidance, another word of encouragement. I did everything I was supposed to do but something still went wrong and I found myself sitting in 2 puddles of brake fluid. I changed the brake pads, but when I put the car in drive to test them out, my brake petal went straight to the floor without stopping the car.

I couldn’t understand what could have gone wrong. This minivan is part of my job, part of my connection; and it was broken. Another phone call to my father landed me with possibilities of all the problems, and worse, the expensive solutions. Frustrated and overwhelmed, I was stuck and it was getting late and starting to rain. I was supposed to be somewhere in Seattle at 9 the next morning. My only option was to replace the brake fluid and bleed the brakes; both of which I had no idea how to do. “You need to have the blakes bred” must have come out of my dad’s mouth a dozen times, but I was too frustrated to laugh – at the time.

After more coaching, a YouTube tutorial, and another trip to Schuck’s auto parts, my cousin and I got to work in the raid. We tried a DYI vacuum trick that looked (and worked) more like a bong from my early days. We ended up doing it the old fashioned way – my dad’s way. Seven and a half hours later, we took her for another spin, this time the brakes working quietly and efficiently. My father congratulated me on a job well done.

The next day, while I drove the beast of a van down the Maple Valley Highway I thought back to the previous day and came out with some insights on life and how I operate my life.

No matter how well I think I can do something of how effectively I think I can perform; no matter how confident I am, things tend to go wrong occasionally. I’m not always going to have my dad physically present to coach me on fixing cars or doing taxes. Errors are port of life, but they lead to growth. Even though I didn’t know that brakes could be bled, I learned how to do it and I had to learn fast. Mistakes have a way of forcing our heads up and our eyes open. We have the choice to face them and learn or to turn away from them in further ignorance. Problems break friendships, jobs, marriages, and projects, but they also have the ability enable us to grow as people, to learn and discover what may have been previously unknown and daunting.

I also thought of my relationship with my dad, which hasn’t always been very healthy. In the last few years it has grown and developed into a healthy relationship, but I realized that I called my dad when I needed something from him. We talk on occasion, but I must have spent 2 hours talking to him when the brakes went bad. The thing is, I could tell that he loved every minute that we spent on the phone. Not once did he say, “alright, I have to go”, or “why don’t we talk more often?” We had a connection over my problems. I knew that he had the answers, which is why I called him. Most times, I don’t call just to call, and that makes me sad.

What makes me more sad is that I do the same thing with my other Father. This is the one that created the sun and gives me life. This is the One that knew me and loved me before I was even born. Most of the time, I only talk to him when I need something, or when I have a problem. Lately, selfishly, I haven’t been calling simply to talk. When I call Him with my problems and issues, like my dad, He loves every minute of communicating with me. He loves the connection, the intimacy, if only for the moment. He hangs on every word and thinks about the conversation long after it has finished.

Love is not using someone for what it can give me, but it is the beauty of giving something away expecting nothing, and often not getting anything in return. I hope to be able to invest in my relationships with my dad, God, and those around me because I love them and value them. They are more than worth my time and energy. And with my dad and God especially, they are worth more than what I have been giving them and taking for myself. They are willing to give of themselves to me, but so often I have been unwilling to give of myself to them. It’s time for a change.