God Drives a Tow Truck (4 page)

The day he died, I raced home from school, hopefully grabbed a carrot, knowing he had been very ill with colic the night before. I ran the mile to the farm, and when I entered the barn, Ella was waiting for me. Her face looked stricken, and I didn’t need to ask if Joe was better. I ran out to the pasture and wandered among the horses, sobbing my little heart out.

I sat on a rock by the pond in the pasture and buried my face in my arms. Then I felt a hand on my back. Matt patted my back gently.

“I’m really sorry, Vicky; I know you really loved Joe.” I cried and cried while he patted my back.

Funny how that experience from so many years ago would now circle back. Forty years later, Nicole at Hollow Creek Farm emailed her volunteers and board members, asking if any of us knew a humane horse trainer to work with Sadie, the wild mustang.

“She needs to learn that not all humans are monsters,” wrote Nicole.

I had never worked with a wild mustang, but I had loved an ugly, old, angry horse so thoroughly that he loved me back. In Nicole’s eyes, that was qualification enough.

I have since discovered that you never know when God is preparing you, or what He is preparing you for. But I am certain that every experience He puts before us can be turned into a blessing. I was a lucky little girl that my blessing nickered with so much love.

Chapter Five

Learning the Value of Stopping

Psalm 138: 6-7

⁶
Though the LORD is exalted, he looks kindly on the lowly;
   though lofty, he sees them from afar.
⁷
Though I walk in the midst of trouble,
   you preserve my life.

There are good reasons why every intersection has a big red stop sign. It is not just because red looks nice against the deep blue sky. Stopping is a critical skill. I don’t know why my brother neglected that part of my roller skating education until AFTER I entered the regional speed Skating competition.

I loved my brother, but when he begged me to join his roller speed skating team, I pointed out that I didn’t know
how
to roller skate.

“That’s ok,” John insisted, “All we need is a body. You will be the only 18 year old girl in the competition. If you put on skates, you will win.”

“Don’t I have to cross a finish line at some point?”

“Well yes, but technically you could crawl the whole way. Don’t worry. I will teach you how to skate.”

I don’t know if it has become obvious yet, but anyone who knows me for any length of time quickly discerns that skill and talent and knowledge are rarely prerequisites for me to try something. So far, I have never been asked to do brain surgery, but if someone is willing to let me have a go at it, I am game. How hard could it be? Other people learn to do it.

So the next day, John and I drove together to his skating practice. He introduced me to the coach and my teammates.

“How long have you skated?” asked Skip the coach.

I glanced at John.

“Do you mean before or
after
we start practice today?” I asked.

Skip tilted his head with an alarming lack of humor in his expression.

The competition was in two weeks. I had two weeks to learn how to skate. I put on my skates and clutching the railing, tottered onto the rink. Skip watched me and I had a sneaky suspicion that John had not informed him fully about my level of expertise. He was gesticulating furiously with my brother, and pointing at me, as I eased around the rink, hand over hand on the railing, sliding my precariously balanced body along.

John glided up to me, and told me I was doing great. Now I needed to learn to let go of the rail. He showed me how to angle my toe so that I could push off and glide forward. I must have looked concerned.

“Try it,” he urged, “I’ll catch you if you start to fall.”

Trembling, I released my death grip on the rail and then swung my arms like a windmill before I went down.

John hurried to pull me to my feet. Skip threw his arms up and stormed out of sight.

The lessons began in earnest. John was a good and patient teacher and within an hour, I was shuffling like an old lady and then gliding for 2 or 3 inches before tumbling. My knees were black and blue and beginning to swell. John insisted I was doing just fine.

Now it was time for some races. The rest of the team had been whizzing along in a typical practice session, trying not to be wiped out by my flailing limbs when I splatted to the floor. Nonetheless, Skip told me to line up with the first group of racers. I was to race with the five year olds.

I will never forget little Penny. While she was only five, she must have been skating in utero. She was the fastest little thing I had ever seen outside of particle accelerators. She lined up next to me. Fortunately, I was caught up in her draft and went a good foot before falling. That was a record distance for me remaining upright.

Forty minutes later, I completed my lap and it was time to head home.

John was a little quiet. I don’t know on what he had been basing any hope of talent. It is not like I had shown much aptitude for any physical endeavor up to that point in my life.

“You’ll do fine,” he said at last, “We will go to the skating sessions every day and you will be ready.”

So for the next two weeks, John and I went to skate for two hours every day. I gained confidence slowly and soon could shuffle my feet rapidly along for four or five quick strokes, and then glide, arms out like a tight-rope walker. Then I would skitter along again, bottom sticking out in counterbalance, my arms ramrod straight out like a scarecrow, and eyes riveted ahead. John loped easily beside me, pirouetting and circling, shouting encouragements.

The day of the race finally arrived. My knees had been officially diagnosed with “water on the knee”, due to repeated concussive type injury. My bottom had large purple bruises so I avoided sitting as much as possible. After the competition, unless I qualified for the State contest, my skating career would end. Penny still lapped me three times on a one lap race, but John insisted that I would be the only 18 year old in the race, thus would win my age division and gain my team the much needed first place points.

It was with horror that I looked at the entrant sheet. I was
not
the only 18 year old. There was another 18 year old entered. I stormed over to my brother, but there was nothing we could do now. I was entered and my team was counting on me. I had never once made it around the rink without falling, but I was all they had.

I felt like throwing up as I lined up at the start line. The other girl looked possibly more frightened than I was. I realized that in all likelihood, she too had been talked into this humiliating position by some plotting sibling. We glanced sympathetically at each other, and tried to look like serious skaters “taking our mark.” Normally that means that one hand softly grazes the floor, while the other rests on the opposite knee. One toe digs down, heel up, while the other foot is perpendicular to give maximum push. If I assumed that position, I would topple, so I just stood still and tried not to wave my arms excessively while maintaining my balance. The starting gun boomed. With a jump, I lurched forward. I ran in place for a few scary moments trying to find traction, and then gallantly glided at least two feet. My brother was cheering wildly. I kept my eyes straight ahead and willed myself to stay upright and keep moving. The other girl was not a whole lot better, but it was certainly difficult to be much worse. We slowly, painfully inched around the rink. There was no blur of crowd or motion, as we were oozing like slime into the first curve. I suspect we were breaking records for the slowest roller skating lap of all time.

I pumped my arms frantically, and then glided with my legs braced like pogo sticks. As we entered the final turn I was no more than fifty feet behind. I had not fallen once and was intensely proud of myself. I began to gain confidence and push off each slightly turned foot a little harder with each stroke. I was gaining on my worthy opponent and the crowd was going wild…. the ones that hadn’t fallen asleep. Then suddenly, there was a deafening roar as the poor girl in the lead began thrashing wildly and went down.

I made my move. With monumental effort, I threw all caution to the wind, and began scooting each foot forward,
one two three, glide, one two three glide, catch balance, glide, one two three, oops, catch balance, glide
…..

I was going faster than I had ever skated in my life as I passed the poor fallen girl. The finish line was in sight. I leaned forward and my brother was cheering. I crossed the line to deafening roars from my teammates.

I had won!!!! As I approached the wall, I realized with sickening awareness that my brother had never taught me to stop. There had been no need. I crashed into the wall and slipped to the floor, victorious.

That was the end of my speed skating career, but I actually did continue to roller skate, and became fairly accomplished. I had no delusions that I had any talent, but I had made my brother proud and even Skip, the coach, clapped me joyfully on the back as they carried me off the rink.

When Jesus tells the fisherman to leave their nets and follow him…. He doesn’t tell them where they will stop. All that matters is that they agree to go. They weren’t any more prepared than I was to become a disciple. They had no more sense than I did of how it would all end. Maybe in a funny way, God was teaching me a little bit about the leap of faith I would eventually be making. Where or how I stopped didn’t really matter. What was most important is that I learned how to go… and leave the stopping to Him.

Chapter Six

Talent is Not a Prerequisite

James 5:11

As you know, we consider blessed those who have persevered. You have heard of Job's perseverance and have seen what the Lord finally brought about. The Lord is full of compassion and mercy.

In case I might for one second develop any delusions of grace, my sister Wendy would tell me repeatedly that I was a klutz. We had an ongoing rivalry growing up, close in age with similar talents. I was a good artist, but Wendy was better. I was a smart kid, but Wendy was smarter. I was not ugly, but Wendy was pretty. I was not fat, but Wendy was perfectly proportioned. You get the idea. Wendy, fourteen months older than I was, was wiser, and more talented, and not shy about letting me know that. At least, that is how I remembered our lifelong duel.

Nonetheless, I was determined to step outside of the prison of Clumsy-Land Wendy had jailed me in with her taunts. When I entered high school, Wendy was a Junior, and of course, a member of the cheerleading squad. I knew better than to attempt that level of achievement. However, the school bulletin announced the opportunity to audition for the high school marching band dance team. This was, after cheerleading, the most sought after activity in the world. The “Tigerettes”, also known as “the Rockettes of the Gridiron” were some of the most talented, beautiful, popular girls on the planet. They danced at the football halftime shows. They wore beautiful costumes, short wool shorts with knee high shiny white boots that molded around their beautiful calves, military looking jackets with epaulettes and gold braid, tall furry black hats with gold accents and gold tassels. They danced in perfect unison, with perfectly choreographed grace and precision. They were agile, lithe, limber, and elegant. They were everything I was not. I was shy, with few friends. My thighs were muscular (to put it kindly) from my years of roller skating. I was short in stature with frizzy wild hair. And, as Wendy interminably reminded me, I was a klutz.