Working at the Car Wash…

Every Sensor Was Going Off!

I joined a car wash membership for both of our cars. Every Friday I'm home, I run them both through — gas across the street, quick turn into the wash, vacuums, mats, glass, towels. Forty-five minutes later I'm back in the garage, car clean, week ready to start. My wife doesn't even have to think about gas. She loves it.

I don't know exactly where this comes from in me. In high school I used to bike over to Ms. Pat Levy's house, pick up her Mercedes, and drive it to mine to detail it — shop vac, Windex, leather cleaner, garden hose, an hour and a half of work. I'd deliver it back, bike home with a crisp $10 bill, and feel like I'd made something right. She was a great lady. I loved how that car looked when I was done.

But here's what got me last week.

I pulled into the tunnel, lined up the wheels, put the car in neutral, turned off the wipers — and that was it. I was done making decisions. A roller took over and pulled me into the dark. Lights flashing. Water and soap everywhere. Rubber cleaners slapping the sides. Blowers roaring at the end. And the whole time, sensors were going off — beeping, warning, lighting up the dash like something was wrong.

I didn't flinch. Not once.

If any of that happened while I was actually driving, I'd have pulled over. Too close to something. Braking compromised. Can't see clearly. That's an emergency on the road. But in the wash? I trusted the process enough to let the noise be noise. I didn't fight it. I actually enjoyed it.

That's the lesson.

When I put my life fully in God's hands, it's the car wash. I'm aligned with the path He has for me. I'm in neutral — done striving to steer myself. I'm not speeding up or slamming the brakes trying to control the timing. I won't crash into what's ahead or get rear-ended by what's behind. He moves me through each station exactly as long as I need to be there.

Some stations rinse off the old stuff — the sin, the hurt, the grudges I've been dragging around. His blood does what the soap does: lifts the grime and sends it down the drain. Some stations are about His Word working a shine back into me, reminding me who I am and whose I am. And some are just the Spirit blowing over me, drying me off, getting me ready for whatever's next.

But my sensors don't know any of that. They just see danger and start screaming. Protect yourself. Jump the track. Get out before this gets uncomfortable. Left to myself, I'd have grabbed the wheel and steered straight out of the very thing that was cleaning me.

I can't see everything ahead of me in that tunnel. I don't know exactly how each station is going to work on me. But I know I'm safe. I know it's for my good. And I know I'll come out the other side ready for the week — for whatever's next — cleaner than when I went in.

Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is put it in neutral and let the sensors go off without grabbing the wheel.