It wasn’t as if I’d never been behind the wheel. There were those tractor experiences. And when we’d go for family drives, Dad let us have our turns to "steer” seated on his lap.

One eagerly awaited evening Dad said, “Okay let’s go teach you to drive the car.” We got in, and we didn’t get out until I knew how.

It was this Plymouth Valiant with a stick shift — on the column, not the floor. But there's no way Mom was coming along on this ride! She had a way of avoiding conflict.

We head toward my aunt and uncle’s house about 9 blocks away. Which is first? Second? Third? Wrong one! Putt, putt. Jerk, jerk. Engine kills. Put it back in neutral. Start again. Too much gas before I let the clutch out, and I leave rubber on the road.

I express serious concern about the cars behind me. Bandying back, Dad sternly warns me to forget about them and keep my eyes on the cars in front of and coming at me.

Confused over gas pedal, clutch and brake, I drive up onto someone’s lawn, barely missing the fire hydrant. No swearing (Dad rarely did, and even then it was "mild") but lots of loud castigation by him and barely concealed tears by me.

I want it to end in the worst way. But, no way. Dad decided it was time I learn to drive, and dad-gum-it, I would!

And so I did.

When I am afraid, I will put my trust in You. Psalm 56:3