By Ruth Potter

A Car for the Crybaby

“Crybaby” was my deserved nickname given by my siblings growing up—probably because everything in life seemed like an epic impossibility. When God called me into missions, the conclusion I immediately drew was that either God was going to regret His colossal mistake, or He was going to have to carry me over the impossibilities with God-sized miracles.

The first Mount Everest obstacle was going to be deputation, and the first peak would be the purchase of the necessary vehicle. Not only did my male family members live strewn across the world, but my greatest expertise in analyzing a car was its color. The lonely shopping process would also require the money I simply didn’t have.

I made a deal with God, “You want me to go on deputation; you need to provide the car.” And I left it at His feet. I had no other choice.

One day I was reviewing my bank account and found a four-figure deposit that I didn’t recognize. How I wish this would happen to me every day! But after further inquiry, I found that the IRS had decided to reimburse taxpayers who had been mistakenly charged on their income tax the past year. What? Then a man at church let me know that the deacons' fund would be giving me a generous gift towards my needed car. How did they even know?

On a Saturday afternoon not long after that, I was texting a friend. “How will you know you have found the perfect car?” She was only half joking. “I am praying it will just drive up to me and say, ‘Hello, I am God’s will for you.’” Less than an hour later my phone rang. It was my former next-door neighbor. “Ruth, I am here at the Toyota dealer, and there is this lovely Camry with low mileage and in great condition!” I never asked Harvey to shop for a car for me, but then a picture flashed into my head of Harvey going over his minivan with a toothbrush following any long car trip. This was a man who knew and loved his vehicles. “Sorry Harvey, I am home without a car, I can’t come today, maybe on Monday.” It was about fifteen minutes later that the car drove up to me. Harvey was in the front seat. “I really think you should take this for a spin. It has a smooth ride!”

Harvey wasn’t kidding. The driver's seat was as cushy as they come, with buttons that hummed to control the leg and back positions. I felt like a millionaire. What had possessed Harvey to go car shopping? “Well,” he said, “I called the Toyota dealer, and I told him the price and mileage you were looking for. He said, ‘Sorry, nothing on the lot today. Oh wait! I am watching them drive a Camry from detailing onto the lot right now!'”

After my test drive my sister and friends arrived back from blueberry picking and admired the sleek spoiler (new word for me), the warm chocolate gray color, and the flawless finish. What about the neon sticker price on the windshield? It was two thousand dollars too expensive! But Harvey agreed to go with me to the dealer, coaching me before we left. “You tell him what you can spend, and don’t give in.” I was dry mouthed. My sister, Harvey, and I sat across the desk from the dealer. He offered the first impossible price. I gave him the memorized speech from Harvey. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his silver hair and determined jaw. He would see this through.

The dealer became agitated. He left the room and came back. I repeated my speech, Harvey nodded; the dealer left again. After his third return he agreed on my price. Wait. What just happened?

But when it came time to give the down payment, I realized, like an embarrassed crybaby, I had never thought to bring my checkbook! That’s when my sister spoke up, “Ruth? Remember that check you gave me for blueberry picking? I ended up not using it. It’s here, in my pocket.” She produced a folded, slightly frayed check with some pocket fuzzies hanging off the corner.

My initial assertion was correct. My missionary journey would be a colossal mistake or a series of miracles. So far, God was doing the miracles.