The Day the Dog Drove the Car

Because my sister and I had an after-school activity, Mom let me drive us to school in our car, an old battered Cadillac, posh only in name.

The car was, in fact, dangerous. Whenever we were driving it and saw a roadblock ahead—we took a detour to avoid being stopped. The car had no safety sticker. One reason it didn’t have a safety sticker is that it had no emergency brake or parking brake.

That day when we got to school, we discovered a small, white, shivering poodle-type dog huddled against the front of the school while some of the boys threw rocks at it. Leslie and I were outraged. No one abuses animals around us. We flew into the fray, sent the boys running for cover, and took the poor little dog out to the Caddy where it would be safe until school let out for the day.

But it wasn’t safe because someone stole the car. When school let out, Les and I flew out to the parking lot to discover that…the car was gone. Les and I ran frantically around the parking lot looking for the car, but it was nowhere in sight. It was gone.

In total panic mode we rushed along asking other students if they had seen anything. Finally one student said he had. “The last time I saw your car, a little white dog was driving it.”

We were furious with him for mocking us and our predicament. This was in the days before mobile phones. We lived some five miles out of town. Our father had taken the other vehicle to work, so we had our family’s only transportation—except we didn’t have it. It was gone. Either stolen or driven off by a poodle.

The student walked with us back to where I had parked the car…then a bit further. We followed him—and there was our car. In a deep gully. The poodle was in the driver’s seat.

Because the car had no parking brake, the little dog had bounced around until it hit the shifter and knocked the car out of gear. Being on a slight incline, the car cruised down the hill to the bottom. It took a tow truck to get the Caddy out of the gully. Even though the car was not damaged—save a couple of new dents—our parents would not let us keep the little dog who could drive.

How could a blog about a little dog who drove a car be an Easter blog?

Jesus died on the cross so our sins could be forgiven and we could invite His Holy Spirit to come and live inside us to give us help and hope for every day, every situation in life. The death of Jesus on the cross is historic. People saw it. People watched.

Three days later, Jesus rose up from the cross and walked the earth again. It’s history. People saw Him. They touched the nail prints in His hands and feet and the spear wound in His side. And, yet, not everyone believes. You might as well tell them a dog drove their car.

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen. He is risen from the dead.” Matthew 28:6.

“And truly Jesus did many other signs in the presence of His disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ; the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in His name.” John 20:30.

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The Sadistic Babysitter

When I was four and my sister Leslie was two, Mom went back to work and left us with a sadistic babysitter—not that she realized that at the time. Les and I cried and complained, but Mom thought we just missed her and wanted her to stay home with us—which of course we did.

I don’t remember the babysitter being as cruel to me as she was to Les. I didn’t understand then and still don’t understand now why she got her jollies out of torturing a helpless two-year-old. Mom gave us baths every night and then cuddled us and read stories to us before putting us to bed.

Horrible babysitter put Leslie in the bathtub every morning and washed her hair—digging her fingernails into Leslie’s scalp until she screamed and cried and then sticking her head under the running faucet until Leslie quit screaming because she was inhaling water and choking and couldn’t breathe. I remember beating on the babysitter’s arm and yelling at her to quit hurting my sister. She laughed at me. The abuse continued.

Additional abuse served up at lunch. She fixed three sandwiches and gulped two down herself. She divided the remaining sandwich between Les and me. Then she peeled an orange. She ate the good slices from the orange. She divided the peels with Les and me and demanded that we eat them even though we gagged on them and cried and begged her not to make us eat them. She wouldn’t allow us to get up from the table until we ate those bitter orange peels.

We told Mom. We told Dad. They didn’t listen to us. But…perhaps they did—because Dad fired horrible babysitter. Leslie and I were sitting at our little table crying over the orange peels at lunch one day when the door opened suddenly and Dad walked in—just in time to see horrible babysitter kick our Siamese cat across the room. He didn’t fire the sadistic babysitter for torturing his children—he fired her for kicking the cat.

Dad didn’t save us—the cat did.

Thus the problem with seeking help from people—even people in our family. Their help is sometimes flawed, because humans—no matter how loving or well-intentioned—are flawed.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Psalm 46:1

“Give us help from trouble, for the help of man is useless.” Psalm 60:11

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Black Hole

moon in tree distant best

For more than a year I’ve been living with a black hole in my memory. I only just discovered it.

We brought home our rough collie pup Savannah about a year ago. One of her first friends was named—or so I thought—Cleveland. Easy name to remember. Grover Cleveland—the 22^nd and 24^th President of the United States, and the only President to serve two non-consecutive terms. Easy to remember because I love the Walt Disney movie “The One and Only Genuine Original Family Band,” and one of the catchy songs is about Grover Cleveland.

But that’s not his name.

Five times I have been told this young man’s name, and five times I’ve forgotten. Calvin Coolidge was the 30^th President of the United States. Savannah’s friend’s name is Calvin. If I knew a catchy song about Calvin, perhaps I would remember.

I met Calvin last week and Savannah and I walked him home since we were going the same way. Mere minutes later when I got home—I had forgotten his name…again. All I could think of was Cleveland. I looked up a list of U.S. Presidents and reminded myself his name was Calvin. By the next day—I had forgotten again.

That’s when I realized my memory had a black hole. I looked up the Presidents again and found Calvin. This time I pinned it to the cartoon “Calvin and Hobbs,” and have thus remembered it more than a few minutes at a time.

No matter our ages, we are all prone to black holes in our memory. So be gentle with other people when they forget things—even repeatedly.

I am so thankful that God never forgets us. The black holes He created are in space, not in His memory of us.

Psalm 136 says that the Lord remembers us and that His mercy endures forever.

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