It was the summer of my fourteenth year, and I had put in another hard day on the sod farm that employed me during those sweltering July afternoons between the school terms. Unrecollectable to me is the ‘why’ we went to the store, a memory only that Danna and I were in my dad’s Datsun pickup truck. (Datsun is now known as Nissan to you Generation Xers) I was driving illegally without a license, not uncommon back then as long as you didn’t get too wild with it, because traffic and rules were sparse compared to what we‘ve grown to accept in our current world—even in places like South Mississippi. Besides, I needed the practice, as an official Highway Patrol driving test awaited me in my not-too-distant future.
The store we frequented in Carriere has long since gone, a victim of progress; but a good Barq’s root beer and Snicker’s bar can still be had at even the newer stores in our area. (Some things will never change, not really!) I pulled away from the store with merely a slight grinding of gears while we drank and ate our sugary surplus. Meanwhile we talked of things in a way only teen-aged brothers and sisters can, at least when they will cotton to each other’s company long enough to do so. In fact, we discussed so much that before I knew it, I was fast approaching the hill.
The hill is still there today, but it’s been tamed somewhat over the years by the automatic transmission. I know because I smiled during my aforementioned recollection when I saw it the other day. The hill would probably still prove to be a monumental task to a new driver if they happened to be operating a stick-shift today—do those things still exist? I’m not sure. Those manual transmissions, replete with gear-shifters and clutches, have gone the way of things like candy cigarettes and Sunday-school pins, or full service gas stations and prayer in schools.
So anyway, once you approached the hill you were all-in; there was no option of turning back on a less-provoking road. At the top of the hill stood a stop sign, a red octagon representing many broken dreams in the pantheon of all the novice motorists of our time. I’m not really stretching it when I say my blood ran cold and sweat popped out on my brow as I realized my mistake in choosing that route. But I could not show it as it would have been all the opportunity my sister required to tease me—an exercise she was duly noted for. I decided to drop down to second gear and reduce my speed to a crawl, enough so that I could roll slowly through the stop sign, make my turn, and be on my way without too much heckling from Danna. Unfortunately, a quick glance toward the crossing street sealed my undoing—a car was approaching down that very highway I was slated to turn onto.
Grimacing, I pushed in the clutch while pressing on the brake with my other foot, stopping at the top of the hill while waiting for the car to pass. Motion in the rearview mirror compounded the sad situation for me; I watched nervously as another truck arrived behind me. The car passed, and Newton’s laws being what they are, my vehicle began to roll backward as I released the brake in an attempt to reengage the engine. To top off my precarious quandary and add teeth to it, the guy behind me began to impatiently honk his horn. I figured the only thing worse at that moment would be for Danna to begin yelling at me—not to say I wasn’t used to it.
However, just as things reached a point where I was eying the mirror for an opportunity to back into the ditch, she did something totally unexpected and out of character. She reached her foot over and worked the gas pedal without being asked, thus enabling me to slip the clutch and escape my near-vertical dilemma. I was thinking about how nice she had been to do that—and how unlike she had been inclined to do so at other times—when due to the excessive hill and mechanical principles in play, the back tires on the truck began to spin wildly. Unfortunately, before I could comprehend and adjust to what was happening, they caught traction and we were propelled across the road at a high rate of speed and into a ditch—hitting it with such uncontrolled force that we crossed it airborne in a jump that would have made Bo Duke proud. We finally came to a vehicular-silent resting place in an abandoned lumber yard near the railroad tracks.
Sheepishly, I gathered my wits enough to re-fire the engine, and taking off much more professionally we made it back to the road and were soon on our way home. Danna assured me she wouldn’t report my mishap to mom and dad—but that’s not what I was worried about at all. I didn’t want her to alert my friends as to my challenged driving skills. In the end, she told no one, and for a few weeks at least, I was deeply indebted to her for it.
I’d be remiss to say that it was the only time she helped me, really. Looking back, when we were young it seems as though she always had to bail me out or cover my shortcomings. I miss her even more today as a result of those memories, her life being lost way too soon a few years back.
In one of the most amazing verses of the Bible, Paul writes: “But G_d commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” The hill recollection reminded me of another time when I realized I had no hope, no chance, and no way out. Christ took the blame for me, covering my sin and paying the price when I could not do so myself.
I didn’t have enough feet in the cab of that truck that day—too many peddles to press and inertia was dead-set against me. I needed help, and it was given graciously at the moment I needed it most without being asked for. Like my older sister, Jesus did the same thing for me, yet in a much more profound manner. His sacrifice keeps me out of the ditch and hides all of my sins from my Heavenly Father at the same time. And it’s not because I’m privileged or special in any way—what He did for me, he will surely do for you.
Me and Danna, circa 1964 or so.
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