It was my chore to pack the water. For me, like most 10-year-old boys, chores were an abomination. Chores sucked, literally sucked the life out of you. Chores were the one part of life that you were allowed to hate. It didn’t matter if it was chopping wood, lugging it in, shoveling the snow, doing the dishes or hauling the water, chores were a dreaded part of life. There were only two ways to survive them: friends and daydreaming.
The friend showed up to save the day just before I left to get the water. Ricky looked at the two buckets in my hand and snorted. “Looks like you got chores to do. Want me to come along?”
“If ya want to,” I said. “I’ll even let you pack one of these here buckets.”
“Nah,” said Ricky, “I don’t feel a need to do that. Say, why dontcha use your dad’s ol’ panel truck to haul the water instead of lugging it by hand all the way across the camp?”
“‘Cause I don’t have a driving license and ’cause Dad never said I could,” I replied.
“Ya don’t have to have a driving license to drive that ol’ truck in the lumber camp, silly. Besides, if ya used the truck then we could fill up a cream can and haul twice as much water.”
The daydream had showed up too, nestled in the guise of efficiency. I could instantly see myself driving the truck, a real man. Oh the seductiveness of the charlatan manhood, for a boy of 10.
And so, daydream-inspired, and for the sake of efficiency, I stole my dad’s truck, or at least seriously borrowed it. Suddenly the packing of water was no longer a chore, but an exciting adventure. We loaded up an old 20-gallon cream can into the back of the 1956 Dodge one-ton panel truck. Soon the two of us were idling along the two-track dirt road, heading across the lumber camp going to Grandma’s house for the water. I say idling because even as a worldly 10-year-old that knew how to drive, I only knew how to drive in bull low. My legs weren’t long enough or strong enough to push in the clutch to change gears while driving, so I had developed the technique of putting the truck into bull low and turning over the starter without engaging the clutch. The old truck would start and instantly bolt ahead to idle down the road. I would kneel on the seat so as to see over the steering wheel as I drove the truck at the breakneck speed of about one mile per hour.
“I can walk faster than this,” Ricky said. “In fact, I am going to get out of the truck and put a stick up to see if you’re moving.”
“Go right ahead,” I said, somewhat irritated. “Why don’t you use the bone in your head instead of a stick to check to see if I’m moving or not.”
Ricky bailed out and walked beside the truck. Pretty soon he ran ahead and then he ran all around the truck.
“Hey this is fun,” said Ricky. “I dare you to get out and run along side the truck too. Just turn down the window and you can stand on the running board and correct the steering through the window whenever you need to.”
And so, I did. I walked along beside the pickup on one side, then ran behind to walk on Ricky’s side, then ran back to my side and jumped on the running board to correct the steering as needed. Things were going along splendidly as we both strolled along outside the pickup when we ran into the lumber mill owner, Mr. Cameron. Mr. Cameron was like a second grandpa to me, always with enough time to show genuine interest in what was going on in my 10-year-old life. There was no way in the world we could just walk on past him without having a chinwag. We were drawn up short, brought to an abrupt halt, right in front of the man. The truck, being somewhat on automatic pilot, kept going down the dirt two-track.
“Hi boys,” said Mr. Cameron. “Who’s driving the truck?”
The truck kept on idling down the road as I tried to come up with some plausible explanation that would both explain the truck’s continued progress as well as secure our release to catch up and correct the steering before everything went into the toilet. Both Ricky and I were still stuttering when the front wheel of the truck hit a stone and the truck careened slowly off the road. It nailed a huge ponderosa pine tree dead centre with its bumper as though it had been precision aimed. The truck’s compound low gear was so low that its rear wheels didn’t stop; they just continued to slowly churn and dig themselves into the sandy dirt.
I can’t say as I remember exactly how it all turned out. Neither can I ask Mr. Cameron or Ricky for they have both passed away; Mr. Cameron a couple of years after this episode and Ricky just a few years prior to its present telling. But I can remember how it didn’t turn out. There was no haranguing lecture, there was no scathing punishment, but neither was it just laughed off or ignored. I know for sure that we never did anything so foolish again, at least involving a truck. It seems to me now that Ricky and I were suitably admonished by Mr. Cameron’s simple question, “Who’s driving the truck?” And the reason that this could happen so effectively was because of the deep abiding love and respect we had for the man, and he for us. Within the bonds of a mutual abiding love and respect, most often all it takes to admonish and correct is an intentional presence and a simple insightful question.
It strikes me now, in the light of remembering this story, that as a Christian I need this. As a Christian I need followers of Jesus that I can form deep abiding bonds of love and respect with. And I need those people to simply question me when I get off track and begin to follow my own way instead of The Way. I need to not be ignored when I am on the wrong path. I need people to care enough about me, people who I care about, to admonish me with a question, to correct me with a presence, right in the midst of a wrongful act perhaps, or even its consideration. Too often I have been left to sink in the quicksand of a “live and let be” fraternity. Too often I have been allowed to hang myself in an, “I’m OK, you’re OK” sorority. Brothers and sisters, with regards to sin, that’s not what I need.
The Bible promises me a church where I will be discipled; where I will be loved, and admonished. It doesn’t take much, just deep abiding love, an intentional presence and timely insightful questions like, “Who’s driving the truck?” The Bible promises me a church where the word of Christ will be encouraged to dwell in me richly; where I will be taught and admonished in all wisdom; and with gratitude in my heart, I will be caused to sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God. (Colossians 3:16) And it’s the church that the Bible promises me that I really need in my spiritual journey.
