Life as Lexus

It was a bit battered, but you couldn’t really tell.

On the outside, my ’92 Lexus was spiffy. Its shiny red coat would still gloss to a gleaming sheen. Its body was sleek. Each time I’d near a traffic light in it, we’d draw appreciative stares.

If you glanced through the window, you’d see a movie glowing on the DVD’s retractable screen, its characters lively, animated and cheerful.

Yep, on the outside we were purty.

But, mercy me, the interior told a different story. The carpet was better than halfway through its second decade and it showed. Every McDonald’s Happy Meal, Pop Tart, QT Big Gulp and Starbuck’s caramel macchiato had pitched in its 229 cents’ worth and left a morsel or smudge behind like graffiti in a worn-out church camp cabin.

The seat had long since lost its threading and the leather splayed open like a tennis shoe that never got tied. A simple cloth seat covering, like spandex slathered across a fat girl at a disco, was stretched to its limits.

The tires were a tad low; the oil light was on; the back window didn’t work.

For any appointment of import, it was necessary for me to pull into a neighboring parking lot before arriving to tug off my sweaty tank shirt and replace it with a nice blouse, since my air conditioning was shot, too.

Still, it got me where I needed to go.

I suppose, without my realizing it, that weathered but colorful car reminded me of myself.

To the world, I looked fine. My hair was tidy and clothes clean. I smiled when the time was right and few knew of my woes.

But, oh, the cacophony inside.

It’s tough to choose what was more traumatic that season. Was it the tumult that ended my last marriage? Or the early, gnawing financial worry that grew as the calendar advanced through that same year in which I lost my job?

That phone call was a tough one. Being told it’s no longer necessary to come in, when your children are depending on you, is harrowing. Stunned, I walked in a daze that day. As no job offer replaced it in the months to come, the stupor progressed to numb disbelief.

Still, the pounding at the door at 3 a.m. was enough to shatter the calm. I thought only ne’er do wells had repo guys show up in the wee hours of the night. As I crouched behind furniture and left the lights off, I wondered in a panic what on earth I was going to do when they finally caught me home.

And then there were the fleas.

My daughter had adopted an adorable, teeny black kitten and, it turned out, it had adopted zillions of not-so-adorable, teeny black fleas. Within days, our home became infested. It was impossible to sit down on the sofa without leaving, newly adorned to the ankles with socks knit not from fiber, but squirming, hopping insects.

Sure, you cringe. Imagine the reality.

My son, who welts from the most meager mosquito, had to sleep at his dad’s to escape the fun as we fumigated.

Because they were not content to invade my home, the miniature beasts rode, literally, on our coattails to the Lexus. No space was sacred. The exterminator said it was a bad year for fleas. I felt like it was just a bad year for me.

My prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears.

But, oh, we kept ticking. Though our family’s engine was sputtering, we plodded forward, clinging to our faith and the many assurances we found there.

When the refrigerator decided to stop cooling on the same week that the spare fridge died in the garage, we tugged out the mini-fridge from my son’s room and downsized the perishables. With no money for groceries, reduction was no problem.

When the gas was turned off, we heated pots of water on the stove and filled our baths, one slosh at a time, with inviting warmth. At least we still had electricity.

When the pantry grew grim, we got creative. We anointed Fridge Friday, where our entire meal had to come from within the mini-fridge. Macaroni Monday was a hit, as we’d make a massive bowl of macaroni and cheese and then have a floor party. Just like a huge sundae with four spoons, we’d dive into the bowl with four forks as we re-watched old home movies. Sometimes, for fun, we’d curl up in the Lexus, still parked in the garage with motor off, and watch DVDs there with a bowl of popcorn.

SuperClub Sundays were the kids’ favorite. After church, we perused the sample offerings at the local Costco and filled up on miniature slices of pizza, crackers heavy laden with lobster dip and the occasional hot wing.

Even signing on the dotted bankruptcy line - though I did it with a heavy note of shame - didn’t seal our doom. We were, after all, being given a second chance. Yes, our credit was shot and would be for a long, long time but, hey, at least we could see beyond the credit card mess I’d created as I struggled to keep afloat.
Perhaps you’re wondering why I don’t have the good grace to keep such humiliations secret. But that Lexus taught me something.

If the exterior gives no hint as to the interior’s decay, how are we ever supposed to reach out to each other for life-sustaining encouragement?

When it seemed nothing else could go wrong, the Lexus died. Parked in my driveway, its hood lifted in white-flag defeat for all to see, it seemed the final monument to my failure.

That afternoon, my phone rang. It was a neighbor – one who had never spoken to me in the five years we’d lived across from each other – asking if I needed help. Their daughter’s car, they said, frequently broke down, and they’d learned a few things about engines.

Their simple gesture left me feeling awed.

Sometimes God listens and listens and listens. But He’s also watching and watching. Perhaps what He’s waiting for is a sign that we’re willing to be vulnerable with others and honest with ourselves.

Rolling down the tinted windows of our lives and letting others peer in may not be such a bad thing, after all.

A scratch in the paint of perfection, it seems, goes a long way.