I've realized that my functional view of heaven includes power windows and remote keyless entry. I don't need these things, and my life is decomplicated without them, but part of my brain won't get on board.
I like my new car because it will keep me humble. I don't require features to be happy. It seems I've forgotten. My first car was a lot like this car. Except it broke every fifteen days and smelled a little funny. Some day I'll drive a different car than this one I have now, and on that day I will have just as absent a need for custom luxury packages. Maybe life will be such that buying a car with a few neat tricks will be an okay thing to do. That would be welcome, but not for the toys; for the other things that would be necessary in our life first to allow such a margin of comfort.
Gray is a fine car. A simple, plain, unremarkable car that is a wonderful gift from God, and will remind me not to lust after the treasures marketed to me by the earth. I would much rather have a washing machine, hot running water, and a refrigerator than any add-on to a vehicle. This car will safely transport me and my family to our destination. That's called success, and everything above that success is vestigial. And much like the appendix, it's starkly noticeable and dramatically more irritating when it goes wrong.
- J
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