A story about identity, thresholds, and what remains when the roles that defined us fall away.

Gangrene forced the removal of my Dad’s lower right leg, the latest step in his loss of freedom and control. First went our family’s three-story house and the shop that had been home and refuge for 42 years. Now he moved around the Care Home in a wheelchair.

Flicking the TV off, he coasted over to where I was sitting at the end of the small set of dresser drawers.

A green twill work shirt and pants had been part of his daily uniform for decades. From the left front pocket, he pulled his driver’s licence.

Lying it on top of the dresser, he said, “You might as well turn this in. I don’t think I will be needing it anymore.”

My mind and heart struggled to take in the moment.

Cars had been his passion.

My earliest memories were of my father’s legs sticking out from under a car up on jacks. The scent of oil, grease and solvent hung in the air. Knowing the names of the tools of a mechanic’s life was as important for my education as learning the books of the Bible. Cleaning and caring for the tools was non-negotiable, a punishable transgression. On road trips, the game shifted from the easy identification of out-of-province licence plates to naming the year, model and standard engine configuration of oncoming vehicles.

Chocolate cake, heavy with icing, took second place on my 16th birthday. When the doors to the Motor Vehicle Branch opened, I was there, driven by my father, a learner’s permit certifying my baptism into a transformed life of freedom, mobility, power and responsibility. “I drive, therefore I am.”

So the surrender of my father’s driver’s licence shifted reality.

What now?

How would I know him in this new reality? A driver without a licence, sideswiped by ill health, a casualty of disintegrating parts?

Moments—practical on the face—can make the spirit quake. Liminal threshold moments reconfigure one’s sense of self and perception of the world. The theory holds that such threshold moments may open up reality and reveal a different view of the self, the world, and, often, a different experience of the sacred.

Dad’s theological and spiritual toolbox was basic. Confess, accept forgiveness, lead a good life, take care of your family, rest on Sunday (unless on shift work), ‘What a Friend we Have in Jesus.’

Relinquishing the sacramental symbol of the driver’s licence signified a crossing of the threshold. Dad did not seem to experience this as a life-changing, tear-the-veil moment, but as just another step in the downward spiral.

But I felt the tremors—the shifting of the major tectonic plate of his life, our life—for the changes in Dad’s life meant a shift in our relationship, or at least in my perception of it. No licence, no tools, no boots—who was my Dad when he no longer did what he cared about?

As time went on, he talked more, excavating memories, and I tried to set aside old assumptions and listen more.

Years after his death, I realized the focus of our conversations had shifted to the early years of our family, and the word “son” appeared more consistently.

Dad never grasped the intricacies of relationships as clearly as he did those of a car engine, but after all his friends had gone, my brother, my wife, and I remained. Relationship was what was left.

A blessing for the week

May the Christ who met travellers on the road

walk beside you when the road changes.

May you have the courage to release

what can no longer be carried,

the wisdom to receive

what only this season can give,

and the grace to discover

that when work, strength, and certainty fall away,

love remains.

Note: *Chat GPT assisted in the development of this blessing.

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