An A Plus Perspective on Pride and Grace

It’s a hot summer Tuesday, and I’m on an errand to get an estimate on painting my minivan.

My phone directs me to the first body shop that had come up on my internet search. “A Plus Autobody” declares the sign that hangs on the exterior. Jim and I had spoken with the receptionist on speaker phone last Friday to make the appointment. Her name is a pretty flower name, and Jim had told her so; her throaty voice tells us she’s had many years of blooming.

The office is tiny, cluttered, and dusty. The paneling that covers the wall is painted a pale blue. Lilyanne has the phone to her ear when I enter, and lifts one finger to let me know she’ll be right with me. I take a seat on a long wooden bench just inside the door, directly opposite her desk. The bench is a tad too tall and my feet want to swing back and forth.

The lights are off, presumably to make it seem cooler inside. It is not. I notice on the desk piles of paper, a parched potted plant, a snowman figurine. Manila envelopes with shaky handwriting in black Sharpie lean against the wall. There is a high window behind Lilyanne’s grey curls that looks like it hasn’t seen a spray of Windex in a very long time. A sign, circa 1970, hangs on a closed door; updated prices are written on masking tape and stuck over the old.

Once she is off the phone, she turns to me with a smile. I explain who I am and why I’m here, and I mention that my husband was the one who complimented her name when we called last week. She tells me that she has 48 cousins on her mother’s side, and all the girls have some form of this flower in their name. She didn’t like her name as a girl, she confides, but says with a smile, “I’ve grown into it.”

Then, “I’ll go get Joey.”

She walks into the garage to look for him, and while I scroll through my phone, I am startled suddenly by an old man making his way into the tiny office through another door. I wonder if this is Joey, but then realize immediately that it is not. This man is shuffling, carefully carrying a cup of coffee in his hand. He squeezes between me and the desk to get to his place near the filing cabinet, where he slowly lowers himself to sit on a small foldable stepstool. With knees nearly touching his chin, he sighs and sips his coffee. He has not made eye contact with me or acknowledged my presence, but I suddenly have a whole new understanding of this business and the people who run it.

Typically, I do not like taking the car in for anything: tire rotations, repair estimates, oil changes. To me that is a man’s world, and it is intimidating. No matter what, I always feel like I am being viewed as a simple female who knows nothing about cars, someone to be taken advantage of. I tend to enter this world with my guard up and my eyes narrowed.

Suddenly, I realize that this place is different.

Lilyanne comes back saying that Joey is in the paint room and will be out in a few minutes. She then sees the old man sitting quietly on the footstool and laughs.

“He always wants to sit there, I don’t know what it is about that stool,” she says. There is no explanation or apology, no embarrassment around this man who is obviously her husband and apparently living with dementia. It’s just a part of her life, as natural as her name, something she’s grown into.

She and I continue to chat while we wait for Joey. She tells me with pride that her husband, who gazes around the room as if neither of us are there, started this auto body shop 53 years ago. Joey is their son, who now runs the place with his own son. Lilyanne just comes in the afternoons to do the paperwork and answer the phone.

Finally, Joey and I take a look at my van so he can give me an idea of what a touch-up paint job would cost. Back in the office, I sit down again on the wooden bench while he steps over his father on the stepstool, squeezes behind his mother at the desk, and settles into a chair at the computer behind her.

The phone rings while he types up the estimate.

Lilyanne reaches over a stack of bills and answers politely. It's someone that must be familiar with the family, because soon she is saying, “Did you hear our bad news?”

I can't help myself; my ears perk up.

“Mm-hmm,” she continues. “I left him in the car with the air conditioning on while I just ran into the store for a minute. When I came out, he was gone. They found him just outside of Grand Rapids.”

She continues to talk as Joey stands up with my completed estimate in hand. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by his mother talking about their family issues in front of customers. This family is hiding nothing.

As I tuck the estimate into my purse and head out into the sunshine, I find myself wanting to hang around and listen in on the rest of the phone conversation. I want to know how Lilyanne felt when she realized her frail husband had driven away without telling her. I want to know if Joey was the one who found him. I want to go out to the garage and check on Joey’s son, ask him how he’s doing.

The truth is, I entered this body shop with a preconceived attitude about the men who run it, based solely on my own insecurities. It only took a few minutes of observation, a simple grace from the hand of God, to change my prideful perspective.

Now I want to clean up the office for Lilyanne, water her flowers, and wash the window up high in the wall. I want to bring them a casserole and sit with the old man while he drinks his coffee. I want to take the whole family into my arms and hug them.

But I do none of these things. Instead, I get into my rusting van with my new perspective, and drive home.

Do not be wise in your own eyes … For whom the Lord loves He reproves, even as a father corrects the son in whom he delights. – Proverbs 3:7, 12

When pride comes, then comes dishonor, but with the humble is wisdom. – Proverbs 11:2