I said goodbye to my beloved highlander last week. It’s a weird thing to stare at a hunk of metal and plastic and feel the weight of nostalgia, but when you drive a car for 11 years and have a knack for trouble/adventure… it’s more like a scrapbook than a vehicle.
Together we’ve traveled far to the tip of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, slept in Waffle House parking lots in Nowhere Mississippi, made countless treks down 75 to Florida (including a fateful one that I’m finally able to laugh about where the Dawgs were playing those pesky Gators and I put in diesel instead of regular…)
I’ve chauffeured hundreds of teenagers (even let one of them drive— to my complete and immediate regret). Completed a million Chick-Fil-A drive throughs. Forced people against their will to listen to podcasts (on a cassette tape adapter, no less.) Climbed to the top of North Carolina Mountains, day tripped to the beach with bikes in-tow, hauled canoes and kayaks and moved my stuff every single year I’ve lived in Athens (that would be 12.) I’ve sat in a Bible study and watched the ol’ Toyota get hit while parked and I’ve been a terrible parallel parker.
I’ve laughed a lot in this car. Sang a lot. Cried a lot. I’ve sat in silence wondering about the good fortune of my life, mulling over the blessings of the Lord, yelling out to Him the question— why have you given me this life?
When I look at this car… Sometimes it’s been hard. Mostly it’s been good. This car has been with me for 1/3 of my life— through college, through young adult years, through figuring-it-out and messing-it-all-up.
The Subaru has a lot to live up to. Goodbye, Highlander. It’s been the best.