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The night before Independence Day, I was going to meet friends for dinner at a restaurant. As I walked toward my car, I began rummaging in my purse to find my car key. When my hand closed over it, I felt a surge of happiness and a sense of freedom. The key conveyed a message: I have a car, I have mobility, I can go places. It felt like a kind of independence all my own.
I should have known better.
The car wouldn’t start. I tried several times. A line of icons lit up on the dashboard, but the engine was silent. I was perplexed; I had driven earlier that day and there had been no sign of trouble.
The restaurant was about a mile away. When I called my friend Alice to tell her what had happened, she said, “I’ll pick you up.” After dinner she drove me home, but first she pulled into the parking lot I use and said, “Get into the car and try again.” I did, and the car started instantly. It started again later when I tried it, and it started the next morning, July 4, which was a relief, because I was the lector at the 9 a.m. Mass.
My personal Fourth-of-July independence was short-lived, though, because after Mass the car wouldn’t start. As I sat in the driver’s seat with the hood up, along came a jogger. He stopped and asked if he could help, and right away we recognized each other. It was Deacon Robert Gontcharuk of Holy Name of Jesus parish in New Rochelle. We’d met long ago, working at the New York Catholic Center. He had parked nearby before starting his run, and now he went to his car and took out his jumper cables. Just then the husband of a friend came along, saw what was going on and pitched in to help.
The jump didn’t work. Fortunately I belong to AAA, so I called, and the kind woman who answered said she’d send a truck to tow my car to my service station. Deacon Bob resumed his run, but he promised that as soon as he finished, he would pick me up at the service station and drive me home.
The tow truck arrived quickly with two men aboard. To my surprise they were able to start my car, so I drove it to the service station myself. Although it was a holiday, an employee I know was pumping gas; I explained what had happened and gave him my car key. Then I sat down on a bench to wait for Deacon Bob, who pulled in two minutes later. It was good to catch up on the news as he drove me the mile or so home.
Even without wheels, I managed to have a great Fourth. A friend invited me to a barbecue on the beach, and another friend did the driving. The food was good, and later we listened to a small brass band play American favorites. After darkness fell, we watched a wonderful fireworks display over Long Island Sound, with the colors reflected in the rippling water.
Sunday was quiet, but that gave me time to reflect on what independence really means. It’s not about having a car. My freedom behind the wheel wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the founders who designed this country’s government, and the men and women who have served it in peace and war, and who have died so that our freedom can endure and flourish. That’s one reason I reread the Declaration of Independence every July 4—to remind myself of the blessing of freedom, and its price.
I had my car back the next day. It needed a new starter, and my mechanic, Rob, got it fixed fast. I’m independent again, and I’m grateful to all the friends who helped me while I was grounded. And when I grab that ignition key, I remember not to take a quick start for granted.
Or my freedom, either.
