I must have been about eight years old, and was riding in the front seat of what I remember to be a 1964 Plymouth Belvedere. Now I was riding in the front seat, and it was a bench seat. My Daddy would let me sit in his lap, and let me think I was driving the car. This car of course not safe in any way as we know it by today’s standards, and at the time had many miles on it.

It was some sort of factory blue, four door Plymouth, and it had what is called a “slant six” engine. Those were known to be good reliable engines.

So one night we are driving home, just me and Daddy. Its late, dark, and I know that we have a long ways to drive. The engine starts lurching, and skipping. I know now that a car skipping isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world, but it also isn’t good either. About every twelve seconds, the car seems to momentarily loose power, and then just to go back to what seemed normal.

Daddy is just driving the car. When there was a noise or something went wrong, he would lean towards the dash to listen better. I’m not sure why. As an adult, I’ve done this and the sound isn’t that much better, but it does give the strong impression to the passengers that I’m really getting in tune with the vehicle, like I’m the Dr. Doolittle of cars.

“Hush kids so I figure out what is going on.”

“What is it Daddy?”

“Now be quiet so I can listen.”, I say.

Actually I’m praying to God to help me make it to a good spot to break down.

Back to when I was eight, Daddy is leaning in and listening, and I know that he is determining our best course of action. He’s a man! He will fix this! He can fix anything! (He really could!!!)

I guess he saw that I was beginning to get disturbed by the skipping, jumping, lurching engine. I believe the giveaway was the machine gun of questions I kept asking, such as, “Are we gonna blow up?” or “How much longer till it just stops?” All of those questions were followed by the customary, “If we break down, will we be killed by mean people?” I’ve never liked mean people, and not sure if I’d seen mean people, but Mama had told us stories of dastardly killings and evilness that can take place on deserted highways. Thanks Mama….

There was also the bone crushing pressure I would put on his arm.

That Plymouth was just skipping away all the while.

Daddy I asked, “How many more miles till we get home?”

“Oh about 100 miles.” Daddy never did give distance in terms of time; always mileage. This is a continual discussion to this day in our lives, which is why I would follow up with, “How long will that be?”

“Oh about two hours.”

Worry would start to set in on me, even though I’m only eight, but my Daddy never flinched with concern. If he did, he didn’t show it (another great lesson to learn). I’d begin to fidget, asking what will we do questions.

He put his arm around me, pulled me closer to him and said, “Son, right now the Plymouth is still running, and hopefully it will get us home; but if not, and it stops, then we will cross that bridge when we get there.”

Of course we were crossing a bridge when He told me that so I expected the car to stop any moment. Then there was the next bridge, and the next. The Plymouth just kept on skipping, but kept on running to.

There are bridges out there that we may have to cross, but unless you are at them at this moment, you shouldn’t be wasting time or tears focusing on them. That bridge will be there, when you get there.

Also too, when you are in life and it seems to be skipping along, enjoy the time Daddy pulls you close to himself, and reassures you that everything is going to be okay.

Jesus said in Matthew 6:34, ”Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

That bridge will be there when you get there, so don’t waste your thoughts and sweat trying to cross it before you can, besides when you do that you don’t enjoy the adventure of the skipping Plymouth, or the sweet presence of your Daddy in the car.

By the way, we made it home! It was just a bad spark plug wire, and nothing much for my Dad to fix. He crossed that bridge when he came to it, and thankfully it was at home, in the driveway, on Monday night.