My son in law calls his old soccer coach to accompany him on a cross country ski jaunt through the backwoods. The snow is pounding. When the coach pulls up in a beat-up car, so beat up that the driver's side door won't even stay shut, my son-in-law wonders how rough his life has become. As they ski together he wonders how he might help a man he loves and respects.
When they finish skiing, the coach's car can only make it out of the parking lot with a push and a shove.
Finally, he just calls the man with the intent of offering to help him buy a dependable car. In the conversation he is honest and asks him about the old car he drives and if he'd like to buy a different car.
"Oh no, he replies, "I just bought another new car." He names the car model and the year. The car reflects the man is doing just fine.
"Then why," my son-in-law asks, "are you driving such a roughed up car?"
"Well," the coach responds, "when people pull up next to me or pass me on the road, they certainly notice the old beat-up car. I imagine that if they're having any kind of financial troubles, they look at me and realize things aren't so bad."
Like my son-in-law, I'm impressed with such a selfless way of living, a way of life so absent of pride. I have to look inward and imagine myself in my own car and the effect it might have on people who drive past.
How I wish I was as selfless and at the same time I don't know if it's possible.
By the time my father was in his late 70s, he'd reached the same point as the old coach. All his life he'd loved cars, had driven nice cars he was proud of. Our Sunday morning photos were taken in front of the blue Cadillac, the plum Eldorado, the cherry red Lightening, the blue Porsche, the blue BMW...etc. Special events required us to walk outside and pose in front of the car. After years of luxury cars, Dad started driving old trucks and nondescript sedans. He was more than content. He'd let go of a surface symbol of success in exchange for the confidence of real success.
When they finish skiing, the coach's car can only make it out of the parking lot with a push and a shove.
Finally, he just calls the man with the intent of offering to help him buy a dependable car. In the conversation he is honest and asks him about the old car he drives and if he'd like to buy a different car.
"Oh no, he replies, "I just bought another new car." He names the car model and the year. The car reflects the man is doing just fine.
"Then why," my son-in-law asks, "are you driving such a roughed up car?"
"Well," the coach responds, "when people pull up next to me or pass me on the road, they certainly notice the old beat-up car. I imagine that if they're having any kind of financial troubles, they look at me and realize things aren't so bad."
Like my son-in-law, I'm impressed with such a selfless way of living, a way of life so absent of pride. I have to look inward and imagine myself in my own car and the effect it might have on people who drive past.
How I wish I was as selfless and at the same time I don't know if it's possible.
By the time my father was in his late 70s, he'd reached the same point as the old coach. All his life he'd loved cars, had driven nice cars he was proud of. Our Sunday morning photos were taken in front of the blue Cadillac, the plum Eldorado, the cherry red Lightening, the blue Porsche, the blue BMW...etc. Special events required us to walk outside and pose in front of the car. After years of luxury cars, Dad started driving old trucks and nondescript sedans. He was more than content. He'd let go of a surface symbol of success in exchange for the confidence of real success.
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