It's Time to Let Go of the Nissan Named "Freedom"

(Photo by Cezanne Ali on Unsplash)

Seven years ago, I walked out of the December frost and into the warmth of my dad's kitchen. Moments later, he ushered me over to the bar where a simple file folder sat on the counter top, his grin suspiciously wide. Little did I know that folder contained his research on four different makes/models of cars that he had researched for me - four different options of cars my dad wanted to buy for me.

It all started when I received a significant merit-based scholarship for which I didn't apply to attend my number-one college choice. No, wait. It started years and years before that. I'm sure it started when I was toddling around the house barely able to form full sentences. My father, the planner that he was, started saving money so that he could pay for me to have a college education. The scholarship, plus my decision to graduate in three years, meant my father over-saved for my education, and he sat me down at the bar that day to tell me he wanted to spend the extra money on buying me a reliable car. 

I was stunned. Education aside, this was the largest gift he had ever given me. I had no idea that's what he was thinking when he told me we just needed the old Saab 9000 to safely get me home for Christmas break.

The next day, December 18th, 2010, I was the proud owner of a bright red 2011 Nissan Sentra. I loved driving it and was so happy with my choice, though I must say I felt a bit guilty. I had dear friends struggling to pay for college educations and repairs for their old cars, and I didn't do anything to deserve this extravagant gift.

Learning to receive an extravagant gift was just the first of so many lessons God taught me through that dear little Sentra in the last several years. I named her "Charlee" because someone said it meant "to be free," and I was in a season of healing and breaking free from grief and trauma and then chronic illness.

When my dad died in 2013, that car stayed with me as a reminder of his generous heart and his love for me. It challenged me to lay aside bitterness and anger when things didn't go the way he had planned. Having a reliable car without a car payment helped financially enable me to take two years off from full-time work to heal and learn to rest.

I always knew I couldn't keep Charlee forever. My dad had even said something about that being my first car - that he didn't see me keeping it longer than five years. I knew the day would come when the repairs cost too much, or when the car no longer fit my lifestyle. In the last year, I'd even started to think about buying a small SUV for my next vehicle, because there are many ways that would fit the lifestyle I'm embracing. However, I imagined making that purchase in a year or two - maybe even a few more than that.

I just never expected I would be driving that dear little car one moment and an hour later watch it ride off on a tow truck, never to be driven again. 

My car accident was December 18th, 2017. That's right - exactly seven years from the day my dad bought me that car. I don't think numbers always mean something, but that coincidence is too much for me to pass up, particularly on account of the role Charlee has played in this last season of my life.

Am I saying I think God caused the accident? No. I do believe, though, part of the beauty rising from the ashes of that traumatic event is a different car that will serve as a fresh reminder of this season I have been moving into. I am no longer the woman I was seven years ago. I am free in ways that beam from my insides out through my eyes, my light-hearted laughter, and big toothy grins.

It is easy to forget, though. On the days trauma or stress trigger the sagging weight of depression or the fog of fatigue, it is difficult to remember that I am free. On those days, it seems very fitting to drive around in the "Oh to be free" mobile.

I am one of a rare breed who finds great comfort in being over-prepared for life. I will rarely claim I have the ability to do something I have never successfully done before, and I generally function terribly under pressure. I never would have let myself graduate from "to be free" until an entire year passed without a single sagging, foggy day. 

It's time to move on anyways.

At this point, it doesn't matter whether I think I'm ready to have a new metaphorical image for this season or not. The old one is gone. I retrieved the last of my things today and said goodbye to Charlee, marveling in the strange feeling that I wasn't ready to walk away for the last time, yet I had no desire to stand next to or sit inside my dear, half-smashed car any longer.

It's time to let go. 

The insurance company is cutting me a check on Monday. I have a rental car for another week. I have to buy a new car. I have options and wishes running around in my head. I'm not sure I'm enough of the the woman I want to be in a year or two to buy the 4WD SUV she was going to buy. Will I become that woman through pushing myself to buy the SUV? Perhaps.

The single most effective descriptor of this current season is "transition". I wonder if I need a car right now that is just that: a transition vehicle, a vehicle to bridge the gap between where I am right now and where I will be in a few years.

And so I ponder how to simultaneously let go and grab hold of things so much larger than my round palms and skinny fingers. Yet, as I ponder, I keep thinking of the birds and the flowers and the One who feeds and clothes them. I remember the stress of wondering how I was going to afford a reliable car after my college graduation, and then the unassuming little file folder that held the biggest gift my father ever gave me during his lifetime.

So in the midst of the spinning thoughts and dizzying analysis, I stop and breathe. I say to my insides, "Be still, tender soul. You are not alone. Your needs have always been met, and this time will be no exception."

I don't know what seasons you, dear reader, are embracing as the new year begins, where you are letting go and what things you are holding tight. I invite you, though, to join in my refrain.

"Be still, tender soul. You are not alone. Your needs have always been met, and this time will be no exception."

- J