A few days ago, I wrote a blog entitled My Recent Adventure at the DMV. It was quite an amazing visit and definitely by far my best venture into the forays of institutionalized vehicular management. In brief, it was short and sweet—not something everyone can attest to when trekking there.
While there, I had to fill out a form (surprise, surprise). This brief questionnaire was going to help the State of Virginia do several things for me. It would enable them to renew my driver’s license, change my physical address (I just moved), and transfer my voting registration to my current location.
It was a Governmental Miracle
The fact that one, solitary form was going to suffice for all these things has to be some sort of governmental miracle. Not since Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes (Matthew 15:29-39) has there been a proliferation of such magnitude. The knowledge that the regime devised this magnificent instrument boggles the imagination.
In filling out said form, I had to answer some simple questions to help our local gendarmes properly identify me—should the case arise. Among them, I had to verify my age and my weight. Since driver’s licenses are only issued once every ninety-nine years or so (give or take), both of these things had changed significantly. The weight thing particularly irritated me, but I couldn’t lie. It’s becoming more and more obvious these days that I no longer weight 145 pounds.
But it was another question that really caught me by surprise. There it was—a blank line preceded by the phrase, “hair color.” That’s a simple query—one that I’ve answered a thousand times in my life. I quickly began to pencil in the letter “b” for brown when an unknown force stopped me dead in my tracks. For some reason, it hit me like a sledgehammer that my hair was no longer brown.
No, I haven’t dyed my flowing brunette locks. It has turned gray (which I fully blame on God, himself—if Adam can blame God for Eve’s faux pas, I can blame him for my colorless coiffe–Genesis 3:11-12). I knew this fact before, but having to put it down in black and white (for the government, no less) was a tad unnerving.
“Replete with the silver locks…”
To make matters worse, the young lady assisting me looked at my picture on the old license and chuckled. Then she quipped, “We’re definitely going to have to take a new picture of you.” I’m not sure I saw the humor in that, but I now have a fresh ID photo…replete with the silver locks I now sport.
Just to make myself feel better, I launched into a short rant about how I used to have this wonderful head of hair for which many women would have died. She listened patiently, nodding and smiling as I prattled on. As I look back on it, her patience has to be another DMV miracle. I’ve never experienced that quality from them before. God is good (even at the DMV)!
[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]