A pleasant memory resurfaces every now and then. It isn’t dramatic in any way, hardly worth remembering in its ordinariness. And yet it stays with me for some reason, occasionally catching me off-guard. It’s a pleasant memory, and it goes like this. My sisters and I are visiting my grandparents (my mother’s parents, the only ones I know) and it is getting on towards late afternoon on a Sunday. We’ve played outside for hours, and now we are winding down with the day. In the middle of our languor, my grandfather comes into the room and suggests we should go get in the car.
We’re kids, so of course our first reaction is to ask why. Our second is to ask, “Where are we going?” Granddaddy doesn’t answer, except to say again, “Get in the car”. So we pile into the car—a white Ford Galaxy with red seats that seemed ancient even then. Come to think of it, that’s the only car I ever remember my grandfather driving. We kids climbed into the seatbelt-less back seat, and Grandma took her place in the front passenger seat (she never learned to drive for herself). Granddaddy started the car and, just like that, we were off.
The only one of us in that vehicle who knew what waited at the end of our trip was the driver, and he wasn’t telling. “Where are we going?” We’d ask again and again, but never get an answer, other than we would have to wait and see. We’d try to get him to give up hints, but he was always too smart for us. Our asking wasn’t the annoying kind of asking, where kids just nag and nag until their parents get exasperated and either give in or get mad. Granddaddy never got angry. He knew, and we knew he knew, this was all part of the tradition, all part of the fun.
We didn’t get impatient, either. In fact, sometimes the droning of the wheels, the hum of the engine, and the scenery whizzing past outside my car window, would hypnotize me and lull me to sleep. We knew three important things about our trip. We knew that Granddaddy knew where we were going. We knew we were going somewhere really good. And we knew Granddaddy did this for us as his way of showing his love and affection for us. Sometimes we stopped for ice cream. Okay, most of the time we stopped for ice cream. Granddaddy loved ice cream. And he loved us. That was a great combination, I think. And if I did happen to nod off, I never missed the treat; Granddaddy always made sure to wake me up.
Every time that memory arises in my mind, I’m reminded of the truth that I’m a willing passenger on another, longer, journey. I say passenger, because I’m not driving for this trip, either. Just like those childhood Sunday drives, I’m not entirely sure where I’m going, except in the most general sense. I can say “Heaven,” but cannot tell what that looks, feels, smells, or tastes like. I do know that the driver has said it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, nothing I’ve ever heard about, nothing I could even imagine (1 Corinthians 2:9).
Just like my childhood trips with my grandfather, I know three things about my journey through this life. Even though I don’t know exactly where my journey will take me, I know my Driver knows. I also know whatever is waiting for me at the end of this drive is the best of all possible goods. And I know the Driver is taking me where I’m going because he loves me. And you know what? That’s enough for me. I’m going to sit back on these red vinyl seats and watch the world go by outside my rear seat window. If I should doze for a while before we arrive, that’s okay. He’ll wake me up when we get where we’re going.