Lessons from a ‘48 Frazer
The year was 1959. Our family was preparing to go to Mexico City from Seattle as missionaries. We had never been there to see if we liked it. My father had been to Ciudad Juarez, across the border from El Paso, once, and felt God was calling him to take his family to Mexico. We had a nice 1952 Ford and Dad had built a small trailer in which to haul all our earthly goods.
About a month before we were to leave, my parents took a trip to California, while I stayed behind with friends. When they returned, there was no Ford. I learned that the Ford had “thrown a rod” in Northern California. It would have cost too much to repair on the road, so they had to abandon it. Dad just got enough money for it to get them home. Now what were we going to do? The Lord had not said to postpone the trip, so my parents just stayed on course, confidently expecting to leave, as though undaunted by the lack of a vehicle. Dad felt very strongly that if God had promised to provide everything we needed, and He had, that we did not need to ask man to do what God had already promised to do. What should we do for a vehicle? The Lord would supply.
We had a strange friend who never paid more than $50 for a car. He would buy an old clunker, never do any repairs on it, but just drive it till it quit. He had just “retired” one old clunker, a 1948 Frazer, which even in 1959 had already become extinct. It didn’t run and it had no redeeming social value, so he sold it to Dad for $10. Another friend tinkered with the engine till it actually ran. So, on February 14, 1959, we loaded up the trailer, hitched it to the Frazer, and were off.
The trailer, however, had been converted from a little camping trailer and the springs were not strong enough, so Dad jacked it up and inserted some coil springs between the frame and the axle. It was the perfect solution—the weight held the springs in place and the springs held the weight. As we crossed into Mexico, the Lord gave Dad a fitting verse from Psalm 116; “The Lord preserveth the simple”.
The roads in Mexico in 1959 were not what they are now. There were many bridges out and the rough roads were hard on our poor tires. Many times the loaded trailer was more than the wheezing Frazer could pull. We didn’t know any Spanish but we soon learned the words “Taller Mecanico”. The bumps on the road were another problem. Whenever we hit a big bump, the trailer would bounce up, a spring would pop out, and the whole contraption would come to a sudden stop. But we had a system. My job was to run down the road after the spring. My brother got out the jack. In a few minutes Dad had the spring in place and we were on our way. This scene was repeated many times, including in Mexico City! Bump, twang, screech, two boys scurrying to their jobs, Dad lying under the trailer, everything stowed back in place, and we were off.
Crossing the dry river beds where the bridges were under construction posed a complex problem. If we had been able to take a run at it, the Frazer may have been able to pull the trailer up the other side. But the bumps would have bounced the springs out, so Dad had to creep through the detour and, invariably, the Frazer just could not get us up the other side. Time after time Mexican truck drivers would park their rigs behind us, climb down, and help us push the Frazer back on the road. We soon learned to appreciate the truck drivers. We were very much dependent on them. On another occasion, two boys on roller-skates helped push us up a hill.
Then there was the day the fuel pump quit in the desert. Our trucker friends must have really laughed to see my brother perched on the fender, holding a bottle of gasoline, and my father peering around the raised hood as we drove down the road. Every few miles we would stop for my father to siphon more gas out of the tank to re-fill the bottle. When we finally reached a “taller mecanico”, my mother read from her Spanish-English dictionary, “bomba de gasolina”, to which the mechanic replied in clear English, “fuel pump?”
I’m sure that at the time we considered those things to be hardships—obstacles to be overcome in order to serve the Lord. Perhaps, some would say, the devil was trying to keep us from reaching Mexico. I rather think now they were opportunities that God had specifically designed to prepare us for our time there. Without those unique experiences we never would have learned the sincere hospitality Mexicans show to others who share their difficulties. We never would have learned to depend on Mexicans. Instead, we would have looked down from our superiority at the simple “natives” and criticized their makeshift repairs. We would have “ministered” to the Mexicans, while our close friends would have been our fellow North Americans. As it was, my closest friends were usually other Mexican boys. And I’m sure, without the Frazer, we would have suffered from “culture shock” when we finally noticed the poor Mexicans.
At times I feel sorry for the modern missionary who has all the knowledge that books can provide and all the right equipment, properly maintained. Armed with the latest techniques, he is very good at learning the language, but how will he communicate with a people who share nothing in common with him? God has promised to provide, and his provision far exceeds the “necessities” that we perceive. Often, in our zeal to pave the way to the mission field, we remove those very opportunities that a wise Heavenly Father has designed to best mold us for his appointments.
The Frazer never made it back from Mexico. Having served its purpose, it died on the streets of Mexico City.