Driving With Friends

I failed my first driving test.

At the time, I sensed that it was one of the worse failures of my life. Looking back, I can't help but doubt that early opinion.

I am still tempted to make excuses for myself. I had so lots of experience driving by the time I took my test. (I usually drove 20 miles illegally each day to get to my driver's ed. class!) So, our teacher had asked me to take the test before any of the other fellows in my class. He mistakenly thought that I would easily pass and inspire confidence in some of the boys who only had more, er, legitimate experience for their age. Unfortunately, I was used to the "real world," and the driving range on which they gave the practical exam was anything but real. Long and short. I blew a stop sign and immediately failed.

A few weeks later I went back to re-take the test. Driving my father's 1964 Catalina, I was ready for anything. When I saw the black skid marks on the clean, white pavement of the driving range, I knew what was coming. So, when the State Trooper giving the exam said, "St..," I was already braking.

Unfortunately, in the back window my mother had a can of those pastel-colored dinner mints that were so popular in those years. I will never forget that trooper cleaning the brightly colored candies off of his regulation D.I. hat. You will be proud to know that I managed to keep a straight face.

Without a doubt, the best part about that day was going to my friend's house immediately after passing my test to go "cruising". I am talking about "windows down, music blaring, bare, 16-year-old arm hanging out at just the right angle" cruising. Eyes always moving, looking for the girls that we were sure would be overcome by our... I am not sure "what-ness." Without a doubt Joe, Gary and I were going to conquer the world.

I was probably more alive in that day than I have been at almost any other moment in my life.

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of visiting with the same two young men... now, not so young... with whom I went cruising on that memorable day. Joe needed to check out the location of a possible job site. So, at about 9:00 in the evening, I found myself in the back seat of a 900 Turbo Saab, with the music playing loud... this time with Gary at the wheel.

Driving down the road, listening to Larry Norman on the stereo, talking about things that were important to us... it was easy to imagine myself back in another time, another place, maybe even another planet.

Last week, I was on yet another trip (no, not THAT kind of trip!). This one took me to Texas and Louisiana. While visiting with special friends in Texas, once again I found myself in the back seat of a car. This time it was a convertible. Seated next to me was Jack Faulkner, a friend who knew me when I still thought that I could change the world. We were on our way to buy the "best hamburger around" at the Brenham airport.

The last time I rode with Jack in a convertible, we were in a yellow Volkswagen bug... I mean a real bug with a four cylinder, air-cooled engine. Back when we had all the major problems in the world solved. It's a pity the politicians didn't listen to us!

Although the wind could no longer blow my hair back this time, it was still nostalgic to feel it whipping past me as we drove by fields filled with bluebonnets and primroses. It felt like 1973, and, amazingly enough, the girl that I dated way back then was the same one I found myself looking at in the front seat. At least she has enough hair to merit the term "windblown." She is still beautiful and I would marry her all over again if I could.

Jack, Karen, Susan and I are all parents of married kids... but, for a few minutes as we drove down that road, I was able to feel like a kid myself. I was in a convertible with dear friends and the woman of my dreams.

It may seem strange that I am writing about these things on Resurrection Sunday. There are probably more profound subjects upon which I should touch.

Still, there is something about the old stories and the old friends that give me special comfort.

I became a Christian in the fall of 1971. Back in those days I thought that Jesus was the dearest, "alivest" friend that I would ever have. I believed that He really got up out of that nasty tomb just to save guys like me. I didn't have all the theological terms, but I certainly had the sense of the experience, the understanding of the moment. I had an idea that He would take care of all of my failures... no matter how bad they were.

Somehow, it is good to know on Easter Sunday that old friends don't change. Occasionally we can recapture the moments that we once lived. Occasionally, we are given the grace of returning to where we once were and to live it all again.

I wish you a Happy Easter. May it be as alive and real as the first time you realized that a Jewish craftsman actually rolled back the stone and beat the ultimate enemy.