The Peak of Inspiration

I’m going to tell you a little about my pickup.  It’s a 2011 GMC Sierra 1500.  Navy blue in color.  Almost 220,000 miles.  In many respects, very similar to thousands of other ½ ton pickups on the road.

It’s my work pickup, and I use it almost solely for that purpose.  If you have the right tools and know where to look, you will find that every one of those 220,000 miles has left its mark.  It isn’t much to look at anymore.  There is a dent in the left rear fender from a time when my mind wasn’t on the area I was backing into, and that corner intersected my tool trailer fender.  It has a long scratch on the passenger side where I didn’t give a tree branch enough clearance.  One day I picked up a couple gallons of paint from a local vendor.  One of the cans wasn’t closed properly and it tipped over in the bed.  By the time I got home and realized what had happened, the damage was done.  I rinsed it out as good as I could but it left a whitish tint to the tailgate and back bumper.  There is a broken weld on the right rear panel, and it jiggles and flops around at will.

Mechanically it runs ok.  I’ve tried to take care of the maintenance.  It hasn’t always been cheap.  Despite my best efforts, there remain a few chronic problems.  The oil cooler lines seep oil.  These have been changed at least twice but the problem persists.  The steering wheel is fifteen degrees off straight, despite having been recently aligned.  After the last visit to the service station, I was given a list of items that really should be addressed, but which I can’t seem to find the time or the energy to get taken care of. 

That isn’t all.  I could go on about the lack of clear coat in some areas, the broken latch on the console cover, the stained upholstery and the absolutely worn out floor mats, and the various and sundry paint chips, but I’ll bet you get the idea by now.  The bottom line is nobody would view my pickup with envy.  I am fairly certain of that. 

Our congregation hosted a wedding this weekend.  I knew that there was a good possibility I would need to take this pickup to the event at some point over the course of Saturday and Sunday, and I wondered if, or rather how much, my reputation would suffer by parking this vehicle alongside any one of the hundred or so other vehicles there.  I was completely certain that there would be many vehicles there that were in pristine condition, and I was right.  Clean, dent free, late model, high quality vehicles.  Apparently problem free.  Rows and rows of them. 

I won’t lie, I felt a little embarrassed.  Inadequate.  Even poor.  Side by side, I knew that my vehicle did not win.  It was not the best. 

It was at this low point that I remembered a simple truth.  This average, used, high mileage, very ordinary work truck has a quality that I too often forget.  It is a fact that offsets all of its scars and flaws.  For me, this truth gives back the value that time and mileage have robbed.  And while it doesn’t fix the dings and scratches, it does divert my focus away from them. 

That simple fact is this.  It is paid for.  There is no debt.  I hold a title, free and clear, on this one.  The lien holder has relinquished his grip.  The loan has been canceled.  I owe nothing.

And this, my friends, is an apt picture of my life.  I am nothing special.  I carry scars and bruises.  Look closely at my heart, and you will see tracks.  Tracks left by the years.  Some of them have not been kind, a few of them have.  I have chronic weaknesses.  Some of them I endeavor to correct.  Some may go with me to the grave.  I have been hurt, and I have been the cause of hurt.  I have been careless and I have had accidents.  I carry a small part of all of that with me. 

I can be ashamed.  I can look at you, I can compare.  I can say I’m not worth much.  I can think about what I wish I was, or what I used to be. 

If I let it, it will cripple me.  My usefulness, my purpose, will be handicapped.  The thing I can do will not get done.  My strength will go untested.  My work incomplete.

Or, I can remember.  I can remember I am paid for.  There is no debt left.  There is no lien on my soul.  That, flawed and imperfect as I am, I have value to Someone.  I can believe that, despite the mileage and the years, I have a work, a purpose to fulfill.  I can view the scratches and scars as reminders.  Reminders that I was not discarded.  I was not given up on.  I can remember that. 

And that, if you ask me, changes everything.