Life's Hardest Lesson: When To Walk Away

When my college-age son called to tell me his car had broken down for the fourth time in two weeks, I considered telling him to leave the car by the side of the road and run away as fast as he could.

Clearly the car was out to get him.

Then I remembered my first car.

My used 1978 Ford Granada was a college graduation gift. I was thrilled to have my own wheels for the first time and happily, if naively, accepted the car from my parents.

The Granada was one of Ford’s bestselling cars, With the exception of the white vinyl top, every part of the Granada was forest green – the carpet, vinyl seats, dashboard, steering wheel and headliner. Only the sparkling green exterior paint was marred by white flecks on the doors. The black rubber strip designed to deflect door dings was several inches too high – a design flaw that previewed of things to come.

At first I didn’t attribute the recurring accidents to the car.

“Just bad luck,” I thought.

Other drivers crashed into my car at stop signs and in parking lots, or pulled out in front of me on major roads. Was it the Granada’s all-over-green hue that made it fade into the vegetation? Or was there a magnetic pull that drew other cars to its bumpers? I don’t know, but I have never had so many accidents before or since. And I’ve never owned another green car.

When the Granada was not at the body shop, it had a reserved bay at the nearby mechanic’s shop. Within its first few months with me, it developed a violent shake when idling. At stop lights I ignored other drivers who stared at my private earthquake, as the Granada rattled and rolled, then died. I learned to time stop lights like a race car driver, coasting until the light changed, then gunning the accelerator before the shaking began.

Driving the Granada was a game of Russian roulette; I never knew when it was going to die or whether it would start again. One day I drove a car full of fellow bridesmaids to a dress fitting via a crowded freeway. The Granada slowed, then stalled as I wrestled it to the side of the road. Cars sped past, trapping us in our green prison. Just when I was reduced to tears of frustration before the chattering bridesmaids, the Granada started and lurched to the bridal shop.

On each visit to the mechanic, he installed a carburetor kit.  I never saw a carburetor kit, but I pictured it as a doctor’s bag with Band-aids and syringes filled with medication to restore my ailing car part. I waited as long as possible to make each purchase because it drained my tight budget, but each year I supported the booming economy of the 1980s by keeping many carburetor kit-makers in business.

When I married, the Granada came with me, a mixed blessing of no car payments accompanied by a cantankerous personality and costly maintenance. (The car, not me.)
The good news was that now I had someone who could retrieve me when the Granada gave out.

The car showed no favoritism, performing its shaking and stalling routine for my husband as well. We openly admired other cars that quietly waited their turns at stoplights.
I kept the Granada for eight years, hanging on to it like a bad habit. Only one event could cause me to let it go – the birth of my first child.

It was time to walk, no, run away.

We negotiated a trade for a new, reliable, family-friendly blue Honda with a soft gray fabric interior. We left the Granada running as we emptied it of our belongings. We didn’t know if it would ever start again. This way we could honestly say, “It was running the last time we saw it.”

Why did it take so long to walk away from that car? Perhaps it was loyalty to my parents, finances or fear of the unknown. As my mother used to counsel me, “Things could always be worse.”

Since then I’ve stayed in jobs, relationships, and grocery store lines much longer than necessary. I can’t say if I was motivated more by idealistic hope for improvement or fear of change. Perhaps I wasn’t seeking God’s guidance. Or maybe it was the mantra I heard in my childhood, “Never quit.”

But I learned a few lessons from the Granada. Sometimes walking away or quitting is the best thing to do. Continuous obstacles may be God’s way of telling me that it’s time for a change of direction.

I got rid of the next lemon car I owned within four months of its purchase, even though I bought it from a friend. I walked away from a gossipy friendship that brought out the worst in me. And if the line isn’t moving, I change to another line.

So how do I advise my son about his car?

I can’t tell him when to walk away. His heavenly directions need to be worked out directly with God. My son needs to find his own balance of faith, hope and attitude towards change.

But if he ever even looks at a used Granada, I will tell him to run away, as fast as he can.

Nancy George is a freelance writer in Dallas, Texas. She drives a reliable Honda. Her son wants her to ship his bike to Austin.