10. LEN BOUMA’S
CAR
Len Bouma and I work for the same contractor, which is why I
often ride with him to and from work in his car. This arrangement is more for
Len’s convenience than my pleasure, because the number of times I’ve had to
help push the vehicle when it wouldn’t start is beyond counting.
Len’s car bore the respectable name Dodge and
was brand new nine years ago, but by now it's in a state of disrepair. So, Len
Bouma decided to buy another car, even though money was tight. His marriage has
been blessed with seven children, and he’s the sole breadwinner. On top of
that, there’s been quite a bit of illness in the family, which really hits hard
in Canada, where one sometimes misses the Dutch health insurance system. Still,
a reliable car is a necessity for Len.
One afternoon, we finished work early because it was raining
and we couldn’t continue the outdoor jobs. Len told me he wanted to have a look
at Uptown Used Car Sales, where Brother De Haan earns his living
selling second-hand cars. De Haan was in, and more than willing to provide a
quality car at a bargain price. He confided to us that he knew from experience
how tough the first years in Canada can be for immigrants, and that one ought
to help one’s brothers in the faith as much as possible, right?
“That’s true,” Len agreed cheerfully.
So, De Haan began to show us around the lot, where dozens of
cars stared back at us with weary expressions. It was as if their headlights
looked at us gloomily, warning us. But Len grew more and more enthusiastic and
increasingly deaf to the silent message the cars were sending. After ten
minutes, he fell in love with a 1951 Chevrolet that shone like a mirror and
looked to be fresh off the factory floor.
With expertise, De Haan made the engine purr, and with equal
expertise, Len examined the exhaust pipe. I asked him why he did that, and he
answered sagely: “You judge people by what comes out of the front, but cars by
what comes out the back. Look, Arie—no blue smoke; so, it doesn’t burn oil.”
It turned out to be an educational afternoon. Len taught me
how to stick a penny between the ridges of a tire to check how worn they are.
He tapped on the fenders, kicked the bumper, and turned the steering wheel with
satisfaction. All these actions seemed to reassure him.
Then De Haan took the floor and gave a polished speech. He
said this car was a real bargain and by far the best vehicle he currently had
for sale; that a Chevrolet never lets you down, that the engine had been
overhauled and the radiator was full of antifreeze. He also claimed that this
gem of a car had always driven on good city roads and was only rarely used by
the owner—an elderly man who, unfortunately, couldn’t confirm this anymore,
having recently passed away at an advanced age. “This car has outlived its
master,” De Haan concluded with satisfaction.
Then De Haan turned hesitantly to Len’s old Dodge, which he
examined with a look of disdain and a few well-placed knocks. Again, he
remarked that immigrants often had it tough, and that we were brothers in the
faith. Finally, with a generous sweep of his arm, he offered Len two hundred
dollars for the Dodge—even though it wasn’t worth a hundred. Brother Bouma only
needed to pay five hundred more to take ownership of the coveted “Chevy.”
 |
| 1951 Chevrolet |
Poor Len!
He didn’t yet know that within twenty-four hours he’d be in
utter despair, because the car would break down—and that he’d learn the hard
truth of the old proverb: Not all that glitters is gold.
It happened the next day at 4:45 p.m., in the middle of the
city, right in front of a traffic light during peak rush hour.
After a day of hard work, Len was driving home, elated and
proud, and I was with him.
Almost—but not quite—silently, the car purred along the
pavement.
I thought I heard a little sound, coming from the back, like
a wheezy siren with a cold. I cautiously pointed it out to Len.
“That’s all good, Arie,” Len replied with conviction. “That
whistling comes from the rear tires. In Dutch, we call that ‘humming.’”
Then came the stoplight.
The car came to a dignified halt—the brakes worked
beautifully. But when the green light winked at us and Len tried to get his
pride and joy moving again, all his efforts were in vain. The engine purred,
yes, but the back half of the car didn’t cooperate. It was as if some prankster
had shoved heavy blocks behind the rear wheels. Len opened the door and looked
back indignantly to see who was messing with him—but there was no one. The only
discovery he made was that the rear wheels weren’t turning.
A traffic officer blew his whistle in irritation and
gestured for us to drive on. A discordant chorus of car horns erupted from the
motorists behind us, eager to get home to their wives. One bold driver even
risked a head-on collision to pass us on the left and shook his fist menacingly
in our direction as he did.
Then the light turned red again.
This scene repeated itself four times with clockwork
precision. The line of cars behind us kept growing, the honking became
deafening, and poor Len turned redder than the traffic light. He uttered words
that had no place in a Christian's mouth while the officer on the corner phoned
for backup.
After ten minutes, traffic was rerouted. After fifteen
(which felt like years), a large tow truck hauled us away to the nearest
garage. There, a grim diagnosis was made: the rear axles were completely worn
out. Repairs would take three days and cost about $175—though it might be $200,
the mechanic cautiously added.
We took the city bus home, and Len now looked completely
miserable.
I tried to comfort him, but what good are words in such
desperate situations? Len only looked slightly hopeful when I assured him, with
a threatening tone, that I would pay Brother De Haan, the car dealer, a visit
that very evening.“ Give him a piece of your mind...” Len said through clenched
lips.
Around half past eight that evening, I rang De Haan’s
doorbell. He opened the door himself and cheerfully asked whether I’d come to
do business.“ Yes,” I said.
I explained Len Bouma’s situation and reproached him for
being dishonest when he had said yesterday that Len’s new car was the best one
on the lot.
“Stop,” said De Haan. “That was the truth,
Arie. The others were in even worse condition than Bouma’s Chevrolet.”
After this honest confession, I had to search for words. But
De Haan didn’t have much more to say either when I asked whether he could serve
the Lord through his profession. I told him I believed it was possible, but
very difficult, to be both a second-hand car dealer and a
Christian. That it takes strong character to handle such temptation. I also
reminded him of the eighth commandment, where God commands us to promote our
neighbour’s welfare whenever we can, and to treat others as we would want to be
treated ourselves.
De Haan listened silently. That wasn’t like him. Half an
hour later, I went home—unsatisfied.
But the next day, when I met Len on the city bus on the way
to work, he told me De Haan had come to visit late the previous night. A
contrite and helpful De Haan, who had promised to reverse the whole transaction
and, for a fair fee, get Len’s old Dodge roadworthy again.
Yes, Len had been visited by car dealer Adrianus De Haan,
who had asked for prayer—for all those men who, in professions like his, face
many dangers and temptations.
We will pray for the honesty of Brother De Haan,
and of Arie Dof, and of all people.
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Dof, Arie. (1958). “10. De Auto Van Bouma.” (George van Popta, Trans., 2025). In Arie en Katrien in Canada (pp. 41-46). Hamilton, Ontario: Guardian. (Original work published in Calvinist Contact [Christian Courier]). Published with permission.
