It seems hard to imagine, but folks once went driving, often on Sundays, just for fun. Piling in the car and slowly motoring along, they saw the sights, explored back roads, took their time. “Sunday driver” is now a pejorative term – someone who creeps along and holds things up. Our vehicles are utilitarian vessels, hurtling us from here to there as quickly as possible. They are not usually meant for pleasurable outings. We are all in hurry, and if you don’t believe that, try driving the 70-mile-an-hour speed limit on I-40!
My sister and I did some Sunday driving this week. We took my 1949 Ford pickup to church. There are no seatbelts or turn signals, no AC, no radio, no automatic windows. Starting it involves turning the key, pulling out the choke, and pressing the starter. Top speed is under 40 mph. It slowed us down. We had some time to talk. The air blowing in the window was warm and sweet. There weren’t many others on the road so no one was blowing a horn and racing past us. It was a lovely little trip, a brief interlude of Sabbath grace.
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