A Good Word

My Lemonade Coat

Part 1

By Carol J. Ahola

“I’m so worried about driving north for Christmas,” I fretted. I didn’t want to nag my husband again, but our old car’s dependability was failing. Ignoring the “shush” I heard in my heart, I begged Milt, “Couldn’t we fly home for Christmas this year?”

“Honey,” my husband, with jaw set, replied, “I’ll bring my tools along. It’ll be OK.”

“OK?” I wanted to shout. “Your ‘OK’ means you repair the car alongside the road while I hand you tools. My ‘OK’ means no pain, no delays and no inconvenience.”

I said nothing more to Milt, but later that day I pleaded, “Lord, how can I get my husband to see the foolishness of driving 1000 miles north in December?” In desperation I wailed, “I don’t wanna be stuck in ice and snow.”

Immediately I saw it: We were parked on the snowy highway, sitting in the freezing car. The image, however, seemed inaccurate. Unlike other icy trips, my husband was not putting on tire chains. Also, our teenage daughter was not in the backseat.

As the strange image faded, I heard God’s still small voice. “You won’t starve to death. You won’t freeze to death. Stop complaining.”

Although the strange picture didn’t make sense, the reprimand did. I knew that my love for efficiency and comfort must give way to patient trust. “OK, Lord. I don’t want my grumbling to spoil the holidays.”

We drove north without a problem. At our family’s gift exchange, my husband gave me the same gift he had given me the year before—a “coupon” for a winter coat. I had spent the past year looking unsuccessfully for exactly what I wanted: a long, full, forest green coat with a hood. I wished I already owned the warm coat as I watched several inches of snow descend. As the flakes fell, so did my hopes to shop for my dream coat at the local after-Christmas sales.

Two days later, we headed south for home. The six inches of ice were beaten into a corduroy washboard. I tried to comfort myself that we need only drive 100 miles to Mary and Jerry’s, friends we planned to visit. Slowed by chains and rough ice, what would have taken two hours to get to Seattle took eight. Our breakfast had worn off, but we didn’t stop to eat. “Just 40 more miles to Mary’s,” I comforted my growling belly.

In the middle of Seattle’s rush hour, our car sputtered and died. Milt barely had time to pull off on a skinny shoulder. “Joy and I’ll push. You steer,” he ordered. As the car crested the hill, it began to roll down a crowded street, picking up speed. With no parking spot, I bounced over the curb onto the icy sidewalk. Gratitude for a safe landing wrestled with the temptation to grumble, “I told you so.”

While Milt waited beside our marooned car, Joy and I sloshed through slush to a phone. Jerry, driving a sturdy four-wheel drive, arrived quickly. One new battery later, we headed for the freeway. By then our car was icy cold, so Joy rode ahead of us in Jerry’s warm vehicle.

Fifteen minutes out, with Jerry and Joy no longer in sight, our car’s lights began to dim. As we chugged up the next hill, our car died again.