When I was a teenager my father restored a Model A Ford. It was constantly in a state of being torn apart and put back together. Sometimes running, sometimes not.

During that period of life, he would take me along to car shows, and we spent a great deal of our time on the fringes of the show, where vendors laid out tables of their parts. To me, it was a smorgasbord of mystery. I had no idea what any of those things were. For him however, it was a treasure hunt, always in search of that one part that would make his treasured Model A better, one step closer to perfection.

It was frustrating to a young man approaching driving age. I wanted the car done, finished. To me it was something to complete. The joy would be in the driving this car that stood out so. It was not until many years later that I understood his joy had nothing to do with the finished product. it was the process of perfection that he enjoyed.

When he sold the car, it was not perfect, be he had had many years of enjoying the work of growing closer. and closer, of tinkering, of watching a junked shell of a car emerge, if not perfect, better.

I on the other hand, had missed it. It was always a chore.

Our own lives are like that sometimes. We are so busy reaching for perfection, in our work, in our relationships, in our faith, that we miss the truth – we’ll never “get there”.

It could be that getting there isn’t even the point. That the point is about the process of getting there. The never ending process of day by day, week by week seeking to better who and what we are, the constant tinkering and study and tinkering again to get, not perfect, but better.

If we find joy in that journey, without worrying about perfection in it, but improvement, then the journey is a joy. If we cannot find joy in the process, then that journey is a struggle, a pain in the butt, a hassle, and in the end, we abandon it, satisfied to be stuck where we are, despite anything we say.

I still go to car shows, long after my dad stopped. And I still gravitate to those vendors on the fringes, poking through the tables of rusted worn parts that I have no idea what they are or what they do. I linger at their tables, poking through odd boxes. At times, I buy something, just because it is interesting looking. I find joy in it. Sort of my way of remembering the journey, and the lesson learned, and the mystery of it all.

There is grace in that journey. And mystery. And if we can allow it, joy.

Be well, Travel Wisely.

Tom