Broken AC.
Broken door locks.
Broken door.
Broken window.
My car has issues.
It was a big day as I climbed into Loretta the Beretta and headed off to work. She was recently returned from the body shop with the delightful result that I could now get into the driver’s seat by using the driver’s door. This may seem commonplace to you, my friend. However, to a man who has been climbing in through the passenger seat and over the gear shift for months, it is nothing short of glorious.
Additional joy came from the repaired window, which now opened and closed at the crank of a handle. Prior to the repair, I had the unenviable choice of a window that was either closed, mostly, but leaking like a sieve, or open at a 45-degree angle and leaning out into the wind, screaming its defiance at an uncaring world. Either position could be achieved only by getting out of the car and shoving the window from the outside, a maneuver I was reluctant to perform at highway speeds. This had been unpleasant during the summer, since the air conditioner is broken beyond my budget’s ability to fix, and temperatures in my town, while rarely reaching into four digits, often reach three; it was really rough now that vicious Mr. Winter had plunged us deep into the arctic realms.
But this frozen morning was different. This morning the heater would not have to battle a partially open window. This morning I did not have to do the Bat-crawl to my seat while wearing a parka. This morning I was cruising in style.
Mostly.
See, there is one residual problem from the whole, “Gee, the driver’s door won’t open” issue. The door now often fails to close really securely, the results being an annoying rattle and the ever-present fear of being sucked out into traffic. The solution is fairly simple—one must slam, perhaps several times.
Cue foreshadowing music…
As I started down the street that frigid morning (I mentioned that it was cold, right?) I noticed that Loretta’s door was doing the whole death-rattle thing, so I grasped the handle firmly and slammed the door.
And it still rattled. So, I grasped the handle firmlier and slammed the door harder.
Boom. The window exploded. I thought I had been shot. I kinda wished I had been shot. Because now, and for the foreseeable future, I would be driving with no window, leaving a seemingly endless trail of perfectly square bits of glass in my wake.
You may not be aware of this—I certainly wasn’t at the time—but it takes weeks to order a driver’s window for a 1996 Chevy Beretta. Apparently, they were not all as popular as my sweet Loretta.
As I drove to work—shivering uncontrollably, leaning halfway into the passenger seat, trailing bits of glass down the freeway—I began to feel just a tad bit sorry for myself. Here I am, pulling 40—hard, and my car has broken air conditioning, doors that won’t lock (yeah, I know—who’s gonna steal it, right?), a tape deck—yes, tape deck—that eats tapes, a check engine light that lies, oil incontinence issues, and paint that flies off in bits and patches as I drive down the road.
I gotta admit, I kind of thought I’d be in a better place by now.
My pity party got rudely interrupted by a phrase I’ve been seeing on the Internet in recent weeks.
First World Problems.
Bummer…my pity party was just taking off. I mean, there was no music, ‘cause the tape deck is busted, but the nachos were great.
Anyway, I started—reluctantly—to count my proverbial blessings:
A job that provides for my family.
A car, crunchy as it is, to get me to said job—Charles Ingalls would have killed for my sweet Loretta.
A warm, safe home to return to.
A family who loves me, even though they know me.
A God who loves me, even though he knows me even better.
Food, and clothing, and shoes, and dental care, and Del Taco, and…
Yeah, so maybe life is pretty amazing after all.
Hey, do yourself a favor. Grab a pencil and make a list of all the ways God has taken care of you. I don’t care how stinky your life is these days; you will need more than one piece of paper. Then come back and share just one way that you are blessed.
Go on…I’ll wait.