Car accidents involving older drivers fascinate and draw censure, especially if fatalities are involved. Such stories evoke relief in others that it wasn’t them, but fear-seeds their psyches. Prayer for God’s protection behind the steering wheel deepens.

For several years, that had been my experience. But last summer’s honking as I rolled through a blinking red light at the entrance of rehab still rankled. “The humidity dulled my awareness,” I said to myself, despite coughing and shortness of breath and sweating palms. Often, I had wondered what circumstances would crowd out years of driving. How would I live without my 1999 Toyota Camry? Though old, it was in good shape. The same mechanics had serviced it and advised me to hold on to it.

I still remember picking out my used car on the lot at Enterprise with its odometer reading of 12,000 miles, its sand-sleek body, and its smooth test drive. There followed nineteen seamless years of driving, in all weathers. But in recent months diminishing energy led me to welcome rides from others. I did not want to make the headlines.

Already within the momentum of disposing stuff, I remembered my car, drawing dust in the garage, its battery having been replaced. The decision was made for me—it had to go.

Its new owner fell into my lap. An East St. Louis church was looking for a used car to transport their seniors to Sunday services and doctors’ appointments. After I received the agreed-upon payment, I handed over the title and watched my Toyota being driven away. I was content.