The second fight Michael and I had was about my car. I’ll tell you about the first one another time. When we married, I owned a two toned, navy blue on the bottom with white top, Chevelle Malibu, straight stick, no air conditioning (no one had air conditioning in those days), slightly snazzy but mostly utilitarian. While Michael finished his first seminary degree and worked part-time, I drove to my job as a social worker each morning through Louisville city traffic in my dependable little car. Every afternoon at five o’clock, it brought me home over the expressway and down Frankfort Avenue.
As I was reclining on the couch reading one Saturday morning, my day off, Michael came through with buckets and sponges and soap. After several trips through the living room passing by me, accompanied by suitable sound effects, I finally asked the question he was waiting for. "What are you doing"? I received an instructional edifying statement about my participation in washing my car. I replied I had not asked him to wash my car and the battle was on. His expectations and my expectations about our individual modes of transportation differed We worked that one out. He lives with my trashy car and I don’t say much about his truck. Compromise is so good for the soul... and the marriage.
My father enjoyed cars. My earliest car memory is a rusty green Chevrolet. When he could afford it, daddy always paid cash, we would buy a car as needed (or not, depending on your point of view). Once Mama, Gayle and I took the train to Virginia for a visit with family. When we got off the train and began walking down the street in Valdosta, Georgia, Mama kept asking where the car was. Daddy led us to a HUGE black Hudson, elegant inside and out, but HUGE. It rode like a boat in calm waters. My sister’s embarrassment and my mother’s judgement sent the Hudson on its way. It was traded for a new Ford. Daddy was the first person in our community to buy a compact car, a two tone green Valiant. He bragged about the gas mileage while Gayle and I were stuffed in the back seat. Cars were transportation and needed to be dependable but he knew how to have fun with cars.
My sister was often mortified by Daddy’s choices in transportation. She would slip down in the seat so none of her friends could see her riding in the latest monstrosity. In later years, my girls would wait until all their friends had been picked up at school before they would come out to get in Michael’s big red noisy pick-up truck. I could care less. I am currently driving a geezermobile, Michael’s father’s car, a Mercury Marquis. My transportation standards are low. It must run and get reasonable gas mileage.
It occurs to me that sacred language and Bible translations have much in common with cars. They are a means of transportation to the Infinite. We all have our brand loyalties, our preferences for particular bells and whistles, our need for it to feel comfortable. But the purpose of all translations and all sacred language is to get us to God. If the King James version was what spoke to my friend Dan Bowers, if inclusive language is necessary for my friend Dorri, if my friend Wally can read and translate from the Greek and doesn’t need any one else’s interpretation, "good on you". Do what it takes to get you where you need to go. Try not to slink down in the seat when someone else’s Hudson Bible or Chevrolet sacred language pops up in worship. We are all trying to get home to God the best way we know how. You never know when you will have a flat tire and help might come from the persons who speak Ford.
Written in grateful memory of my father, Thomas Anderson Calhoun on May 8, 2007. It would have been his eighty second birthday.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
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