plagued by the same sin

My blood pounded in my ears when Grandma pulled out the keys to her '67 Chevy and told me it would be mine to use as soon as I got my driver's license.  It was a massive tank, with a steering wheel a good two-feet in diameter, but I didn't care.  I was going to have my own car to drive in high school!  It came equipped with an a-ooga horn and an eight-track tape player.

One time that a-ooga horn malfunctioned when I was driving downtown.  It was loud and sickly sounding, and cars started pulling over because they thought some kind of an emergency vehicle was coming.

I loved that car, but I had so much trouble remembering to put gas in it. 

Dad brought a gas can when I got around the block from home one day and sputtered to a stop. 

Dad brought a gas can to Taco John's after dark to fill my tank.

I lose count of how many other times I ran out of gas, and dad didn't seem to keep track.  Every time I called he came to my rescue.  Annoyed.  But he always came.

“If you, O Lord, kept a record of sins, O Lord, who could stand?” (Psalm 130:3) 

I fill my gas tank now.  It took a while, but I finally got it.