~Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.~
Is it just me, or is that one very cool sentiment?
A little angel sent those words to me via a Piece of Flair on Facebook and it’s stuck with me ever since. Part of its initial allure, I suppose, stemmed from its impeccable timing. But it’s more than that. It’s about taking the whole lemons-into-lemonade mindset and adding a new twist…
Sometimes the lemons are just there. And while lemonade might be yummy, it’s not the only option. Adjusting and celebrating is another.
This past week my beloved sixteen-year-old car decided to retire. Two months early. A retirement I’d considered in some cobweb-filled corner of my mind yet discarded because I couldn’t handle it.
Fate, however, felt differently…
It all started on Wednesday as I was locking up for the night. As I was getting ready to shut the door, a shiny pool of oil on the garage floor caught my eye. And while I know nada about cars, I knew it wasn’t good.
Still, he got the kids to/from school on Thursday and again on Friday, running like his normal reliable self. Yet every time I’d stop the car for longer than five minutes, there’d be a giant pool of oil under his front right corner.
The first appointment I could get for him was Friday afternoon. My heart was heavy as I made the drive to the shop because I knew. I knew our days together were coming to a close. The “uh oh” from the mechanic as he looked under the hood pretty much sealed the deal.
The verdict? A cracked head gasket.
The reality? Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
The price to make him well was way more than he was worth (purely in a monetary way, of course) and the nature of his latest ailment couldn’t be ignored like so many of his other little idiosyncrasies. You see, I’d been able to work around his broken gas gage thanks to the trip-ometer I reset after each fill-up. I’d even been able to figure out a workable solution for the way he leaked when it rained (a well-placed plastic bag can work wonders). His broken tape deck wasn’t an issue either—it had conked out years ago and I survived quite well.
But the cracked gasket thingy? Not so easy to work around.
Needless to say, I was forced to move up my timetable for purchasing a car. A car I simply wasn’t ready to buy yet.
But, as the Piece of Flair said, sometimes you’ve just got to dance in the rain.
Three or four hours after I drove into the dealership with a sick patient, I was sitting in my new car staring in awe at the power windows, the functioning gas gage, and more buttons and lights than I could ever imagine.
Was I scared as all get-out to take the thing home? To park it where my Flintstone-mobile belonged? Absolutely. But I really had no other choice.
So, instead, I danced…
I tried out all my radio stations…slid the windows up and down a few dozen times without huffing and puffing…welcomed any and all rain knowing it wasn’t going to seep through the ceiling…and longed for a bottle of water to put in my first-ever cup-holder. When I finally got it home, I peeked out at it at least a half-dozen times just to make sure it was really there.
It was. And it is.
And you know what? The dancing didn’t stop there.
No. No. No.
In fact, on a total and complete whim (think impulsive college days), I took off on a ten-hour road trip Sunday morning only to head back again the next afternoon. It was wild, crazy, and absolutely wonderful.
*Big happy sigh*
And you know what? It’s a memory I wouldn’t have now if he’d waited the two months I’d wanted him to wait.
So how about the rest of you? Any dancing-in-the-rain stories you’d like to share?