Ode to my Jeep

I sold my Jeep when I moved to Philadelphia.. I didn't want to let her go, but I had to. It would have been 1,600 miles to drive up here, and then I'd have to pay $100-$200 a month to park her, if I could find somewhere nearby that had a space. I'd have to worry about my windows being smashed and broken into, and I wouldn't be driving it to work anyway. So I sold her, relatively quickly, and new she can help someone else get around town and jam out to the radio. 

But I loved my jeep, and everything she let me do, and I think she deserves a eulogy.

I got my Jeep my senior year of high school, after my very first car, Frances the Buick, had given out on me. And my Jeep was beautiful - nearly new, shiny, and all mine. I remember hating to drive her to and from band practice at the football field because I didn't want the little rubber pellets (aka turf turds aka field fleas aka annoying as all get out) to get into my car.

In August 2007, I loaded up my jeep with all my worldly goods (no, just the ones that would fit, who are we kidding here) and drove 90 miles away to my new home. I couldn't see out the back with the rearview mirror, but that didn't matter, because I was going toward something new. 

All through the fall and spring, my jeep became a caravan for carrying my friends, my section, and my eventual sisters around town.  And now I can admit that my jeep would not have held all 10 of us, or 8, or however many we tried to fit in there one night like I insisted we could make work. It didn't. I'm pretty sure my jeep carried the majority of us to find a port-a-potty on a stick, and to a little town 20 minutes south to complete service projects, jamming along to Single Ladies the whole time. Complete with dance moves.

Driving my jeep is where I made my best friends. Where my roommate and I jammed out to our own personal rave with our cell phones as glowsticks. Where my friends and I drove the seemingly-endless road down to the beach, and then had to sing loudly to Disney songs and Michael Buble on the way back to keep us awake. Where I drove, white-knuckled, through the worst rain I've ever been in to get to convention late and had to sneak all 5 of us in my car into the hotel. We prayed that my Jeep would get us there safely, and she got us there and back all in one crazy piece. 

Driving in my jeep is where I fell in love, driving along the back roads of Waco, occasionally getting lost, backing off on the gas so we would have more time to drive and talk together before the length of gameday caught up with us. Only to pick up right where we left off the next morning as I drove my jeep to early church to worship together and feel joy and feel challenged. And, later on, driving through small towns and countryside to find a place dark enough to see the stars, enjoying every moment despite driving into a hole which made the tailpipe rattle incessantly for a year. Also, driving to get kolaches at 3:00 am, because kolaches, duh. 

Driving in my jeep is where my mom and I bonded during the rare stretches of time when I would come home on holidays, driving 10 hours through the most boring landscape ever (Oklahoma and Kansas, I'm looking at you) to see if I would like to live somewhere even farther away. And where we drove the 12 hours to my new home, but this time, my rearview mirror revealed to me a home I didn't really want to leave behind. 

Driving my jeep is where I healed my broken heart, driving around the hills and valleys of central Tennessee, going all the way down to Birmingham, Alabama and then around and around those mountains in the fall, crossing bridges, winding up and down hills surrounded by vibrant foliage and taking in the beauty of the world that reminded me that this too, shall pass.

Driving my jeep is where I sang and sang and sang and sang, for hours upon hours, sometimes driving around the neighborhood just to finish a song. Or driving around for no reason, other than to explore and sing and just drive. Driving my jeep is where I never got to fulfill my #1 bucket list item, to drive as fast as I want for as long as I want without having to worry about getting hurt or hurting someone or getting in trouble, but where I got to drive plenty fast and plenty long and only got one ticket (thanks, I-35). 

I loved my Jeep, and now she's gone. I don't have a car now, and I don't know when I will again, but every time I see a Jeep on the road, I think about how much I loved my Jeep, and how important all the times I spent in my Jeep, growing up and moving on. I remember all of those miles and milestones and will always cherish my dirt-colored, nameless, imperfectly perfect Jeep.