the tire story

Many I know, myself included, seem to be lying down in a spiritual valley. This is nothing new, playing dead, seeing only brokenness, forgetting where we left the ointment.

On Sunday, a friend of our neighbors strategically planted his car in front of the driveway exit. I was flying solo to the beach to repent and think and pray and sleep, and his garbage parking job set me off. I swore and stood proudly by my car until he came outside.

“Do you need me to move my car?” he says.

Great observation. I nod. “Thanks.”

I typically execute the signature Austin Powers move to drive out, but his car was blocking the turnaround. In haste, I exited in reverse, cranking my tire into the cement barrier on the passenger side.

My car could be sold on the Taco Bell Value Menu, so I move on.

The car was favoring its right side, which isn’t extremely odd. But it wasn’t good.

No. Flat tire? I pull over. Yes. Flat tire. More swearing.

Thinking through options, I take a quick inventory. Clunky, broken speaker in trunk blocking spare. I disconnect it and move it to the back seat. Bad jack. No money. Dirty trunk. Tire place across the street. Yes, across the street. The same place where they sell large bags of onions and bicycles and treadmills. Brilliant.

I walk over, see the “CASH ONLY” sign, and start the short walk back, defeated.

I’m not a cash man. “Carriere!” I hear a voice. It’s Amy, strategically driving past.

“I have a flat tire,” I yell, pointing to my car in the parking lot across the street, adjacent to the Burger King.

She comes over; I lament, but say little else. Then I ask her if she has money. She has cash. I walk over to the tire guys. I tell them what’s up. They tell me to drive it over. I tell them there’s no air and I don’t want to destroy the tire. I suggest I borrow their jack and bring the tire over myself. They concur.

I jack the car up. I take off the lug nuts. It’s stuck. Really stuck. I start kicking it and swearing. Amy watches. I look up. I kick some more. I put on a shoe so I can kick harder than I could with flip-flops. A couple people in the parking lot next to us watch. I kick.

I walk back over. “It’s stuck,” I say. They say they’ll be over in a minute. I repeat the same sequence as above. More kicking. Twenty minutes goes by. I walk back over. A new guy comes. He says I’m missing a lug and points to the center. I feel stupid.

I drive it across the street.

Turns out I wasn’t as stupid as he thought. All they needed was a large sledge.

They knock it off with ease. They fix the problem and speak Spanish, show me the dreaded disarray of my tire and offer to sell me a new one for $25. I explain that I’m poor and lie and tell them my tire is under warranty. I’m wretched. There’s no warranty.

They charge me $10, and I’m grateful it’s not $70.

I give them Amy’s money, shake hands, and we drive to the freshwater sea.

Until now, I haven’t given it much thought, since it’s embarrassing to recount the string of sins accompanying the whole ordeal. But there was provision and planning and lessons there, despite my shortcomings.

Had my anger not fueled a hasty exit from my driveway, I wouldn’t have sliced the tire nozzle. If I didn’t walk to the tire place at that exact moment, Amy wouldn’t have seen me. If she didn’t have $10, I would’ve likely spent more and swore more.

But the solution was right there, all along, across the street.

Despite my stubbornness and foolishness and trying to fix it on my own, I eventually recognized my situation for what it was, and found help.

And the solution to this isolation and ungratefulness and sin is right there, too, the same place it’s always been, at the intersection of the cross and the empty tomb.