Any Idea What that ‘Brown Stuff’ Might Be?

When I was 16, our family vehicle was a 1977 Chevy Suburban. It wasn’t pretty, but it was tough, with a big engine and four-wheel drive.

As the oldest of seven, I was the designated chauffeur. One day, while waiting for my sister’s flute lesson to end, my friends and I noticed that a nearby dirt lot had become muddy thanks to recent monsoon rains. We also saw tire tracks running through the mud and figured if someone else had enjoyed the mud, why not us?

Thirty minutes later, we picked up my sister in a mud-covered Suburban. Needless to say, she was impressed - and sworn to secrecy. A nearby carwash made quick work of all visible evidence.

The next morning was Saturday, so Dad was home from work. I didn’t pay much attention when he muttered something about the suburban not starting and carried his toolbox outside. It was an old car and not unusual for him to be fixing something on it. A little while later, however, he asked me to come outside and "look at something." I could tell I was in trouble but wasn’t sure why.

As I approached the Suburban, Dad pointed to a part he had removed from the engine and asked me if I knew what it was. I didn't.

“It’s called the starter,” he informed me.

“OK,” I replied. Where is this going, I thought. I didn’t break the car. Why does it seem like I'm in trouble?

“Do you know what the starter does?” Dad inquired.

“Um, it starts the car would be my guess.”

“That’s a good guess. Normally it does start the car, but this morning it didn't. Any idea why?” he interrogated.

Now, I was starting to worry. Could it be my fault? The Suburban started several times after I went in the mud yesterday. It can’t be my fault. Can it?

“No, I don’t know why it won't start,” I said, only half believing my innocence.

“Well, I wasn’t sure either so I took the starter out to see what was wrong. What do you see when you look inside that opening?” He handed me a flashlight and indicated a small opening in the side of the starter.

As I pointed the light in the opening and peered inside, the bottom fell out of my stomach.

MUD!! Does Dad know what happened?

"What do you see?" Dad asked.

Never one to lie to my parents, I decided to be honest, yet evasive.

“It looks like brown stuff,” I answered.

“Any idea what that ‘brown stuff’ might be?” Dad asked without even batting an eye.

I was busted. He may not know the full story, but Dad knew it was my fault. I may as well come clean and face whatever the consequences were. I’d probably never drive again.

“It’s mud,” I admitted.

“How did mud get in the starter,” Dad asked in a calm voice. I knew he wasn't happy, but I also sensed he wasn't as angry as I expected.

I told him everything and his response still resonates with me to this day.

Dad did not yell or scream. He did not tell me he was disappointed in me. He did not take away my driving privileges. Instead, he thanked me for being honest and told me that since I broke the Suburban I would have to fix it.

The relief I'd started to feel from not being grounded for life was immediately replaced by panic. I didn’t know how to fix a starter. I’d never even seen a starter until five minutes ago. Dad saw my panic and told me not to worry. He’d walk me through it.

True to his word, he guided me through the entire process of taking apart the starter, cleaning it, reassembling it, and finally reinstalling it. The task probably would have taken Dad less than 20 minutes on his own. It took me almost two hours, but he patiently mentored me through each step. When I got stuck, he gave additional directions. Throughout the process, I was told it was looking good and that I would succeed.

At last, the starter was reassembled and back in place. Time for the moment of truth. Would the Suburban start?

Hearing the engine roar to life and watching Dad's face break into a huge smile as I turned the key was an awesome moment. However, my favorite part of the experience was when he told me that he loved me and gave me a big hug.

As my teenage years continued, there were other times that I did dumb things. Each of these instances was handled in a similar way. Dad would pull me aside and have a one-on-one conversation with me. During these discussions, he explained that the reason we were talking was that he loved me and was concerned about me. Best of all, every conversation ended with a big hug.

Dad passed away several years ago but that didn’t stop his lessons. A few years ago, while struggling to understand one of my kids and how to build a better relationship I asked him, “Dad, what should I do.”

“Just love them,” was the immediate thought that came back.

I instantly thought back to how Dad handled the broken starter and other situations. He always made sure I knew he loved me and was there for me. Everything else was secondary.

Since then, I’ve made a greater effort to follow Dad's example and ensure that my kids know I love them and am there for them, no matter what.

It’s made all the difference.

Thank you, Dad. I love you too!