Salve of humility

“Maybe you should park your baby car on the porch so it doesn’t get hailed on today,” my wife said earlier this week.

“That’s not funny.”

“You could probably pick it up and set it right down.” She giggled to herself.

“It’s Lent, you should be nicer,” I said, unable to come up with a better retort.

“God understands. He has a great sense of humor. Otherwise, He wouldn’t have let you buy that car.”

I shook my head.

The smudge marks of Ash Wednesday have long since vanished and fish Fridays have come to a close. It’s the Saturday before Easter; the end of Lent is here. I’ve always appreciated the centering effects of this season and, during it, do my best to come up with ways to infuse myself with awareness. Lent can be a deep and meaningful time.

And, it makes my complaints about buying a new car seem frivolous.

Let me explain.

I don’t buy new cars. Back in 2008, I picked up a used GMC Envoy that had 55,000 miles on it. The dealer told me a bank exec had driven it and had kept it immaculate.

I drove that Envoy for almost 15 years. It managed school carpools, soccer and basketball practices, and everything in between. My kids eventually took it to college, one after the other. Each time, it came back with new window stickers, new radio stations programmed, and new dents. Finally, the Envoy reached the point that caused me to get rid of it: the tires were more valuable than the rest of the car.

I looked for used cars, God help me, I did. But used car values have increased upwards of 30% since the pandemic, so there’s not much savings between a used and new vehicle.

We actually settled on a car at one point and were putting a deposit on it. Then, the salesman called. “Um, your car was damaged in port. I’m not sure what that means, but they said something about a forklift splitting it. They can’t sell it.”

We thanked him for calling and told him we’d be patient. That was five months ago. Still no car.

The Envoy started making noises and stalling at really unfortunate times. Its death appeared imminent. My Suburban, also 15 years old, still chugged along, and my wife was driving that while I drove the unpredictable Envoy. I needed something.

Finally, I told my wife that I was going to trade in the Envoy for a base model new car at a dealership that will remain nameless. Yes, the dealership tried to low-ball the Envoy, which I kind of understood but didn’t appreciate. Yes, the dealership tried to give me a high interest rate despite my really good credit. Yes, the dealership attempted addons that were unnecessary and a warranty I did not want.

But my disdain for that dealership has nothing to do with those things.

Ichecked out the car I was interested in. It was small, had no frills, and was really economical. Out of the blue, the salesman, a nicely dressed man about my age, asked if I had a daughter. Strange question, but I’ll bite.

“Yep.”

“Is she 16?”

“Well, one of them will be 16 this year.”

He became animated. “She will love this car! I can’t tell you how many dads have come in and picked out this car for their teenage daughters.”

“It’s not …”

“It’s the perfect teenage girl car. It just screams ‘I’m a Taylor Swift fan and this is my first car!’”

I stared at him, stunned into silence. I can’t describe how uncomfortable I felt with the realization I was buying a car apparently designed for teenage girls. I told my wife about it and she told me to get over myself. She reinforced that I was being practical and that we’re not really “car people.”

But when I went to pick up the car, the salesman continued. “Let me set the radio stations for you. She’ll want it on 107.7 for sure, that’s where the latest pop is. And don’t bother connecting your phone, she’ll want hers there first.”

I missed my Envoy.

I never corrected him; I just silently drove the new car off the lot.

When I arrived home, my son looked to his sister and said, “Kate, I think Dad bought you a new car.” What the hell.

My 7-year-old daughter, in her innocence, chimed in, “Can I play in it?”

So now, I alternate between driving my old, comfortable, scratched-up and stained Suburban and a new car with fewer than 100 miles on it. I prefer the Suburban.

And I’m reminded that’s what Lent really is.

It’s not about creating new, but repairing the old. It’s not about a shiny outer skin, but a revitalized interior. It’s not about imagining that the dents never occurred, but awareness of how they got there. The salve of humility makes it all go down easier. We all need this centering force, this time to reconcile.

In the meantime, I’ll try to like Taylor Swift.