Last month, my 2008 minivan died.
Not gracefully. Not gradually. Not with a gentle warning that our time together was coming to an end. It simply seized, suddenly and definitively, after fifteen faithful years.
And I have to admit, I felt like my close friend had died.
That van carried more than people. It carried seasons of life.
It held three growing children, friends, groceries, carpools, and countless drives to the University of Michigan. It witnessed early morning departures and late-night returns. It idled patiently outside schools, theaters, and airports.
If vehicles could talk, I suspect this one would have some stories to tell.
It was never glamorous. No one has ever turned their head to admire a 2008 minivan. But it was dependable. Loyal. Hardworking.
And perhaps that’s why its sudden ending felt meaningful.
For fifteen years, that van did exactly what it was designed to do: show up, carry the load, and keep moving forward. No fanfare required.
There’s something humbling in that.
So much of life’s real work happens this way, not in dramatic moments, but in steady, faithful ones. The ordinary days. The routine drives. The quiet consistency that slowly becomes a life.
And maybe that’s the metaphor.
Our lives are full of vehicles, roles, seasons, and identities that faithfully carry us for a time. We rely on them so completely that we almost forget they are temporary.
Until one day they stop.
Not because they failed us, but because they carried us exactly as far as we needed to go.
That minivan helped move my family through an entire chapter of our story.
And while its engine may have seized, the miles it carried, the conversations, the laughter, the music, the chaos, are still very much alive.
I’m getting acquainted with my 2022 Toyota RAV4 now. It has more buttons, more screens, and far more technology than my old van ever had. There’s a lot to learn.
But the truth is, this isn’t really about the car.
It’s about honoring the chapters that carry us and knowing when it’s time to step into the next one.
That minivan held an entire era of our family’s life. The noise, the mess, the laughter, the growth. It faithfully carried us through years that, at the time, felt completely ordinary.
But ordinary moments are where life actually happens.
Now a new-to-us vehicle sits in the driveway, ready to carry whatever comes next.
New miles.
New memories.
New music on the speakers.
And if I’m lucky, fifteen more years of joyful, faithful companionship.
Stretching alongside you,
Amy
