I don’t know when my expectation began that a car should have all four hubcaps. It could have been in 1982, at seventeen, when I bought my first car—a red Ford Fiesta for $1,700—and worked many hours after school at Taco Time for $3.35 per hour to make the payment. It could have been when I married my husband, and he brought his first love to the union—a 1966 white vinyl top, navy blue Pony Edition Ford Mustang—and he showed me how one takes care of things they love. It could have been when we bought our first vehicle together—a 1987 light blue seven-passenger Ford Aerostar van—and because we carried more than just the two of us in that vehicle, we were diligent in its upkeep.
I don’t believe it matters to this story that all those cars are Fords. I’m sure that is just a coincidence. Maybe it matters that I know the year they were bought or produced, or the amount of money paid for each, and the sacrifices made to maintain the vehicle. It also might matter that my expectation about cars having all four hubcaps wasn’t really tested with any of those vehicles. I don’t recall a time when a hubcap fell off one of those cars and was lost and we didn’t replace it. And so, in the first forty-nine years of my life, in my limited experiences with hubcaps, it seemed like replacing one was an easy fix to improve the aesthetics of one’s car. And because there never seemed to be a solid reason for a car to be missing a hubcap, I had a firm conviction that my car would always have all four hubcaps.
I don’t know if I can tell this story by saying I didn’t judge other drivers if their car was missing a hubcap; I’m sure I can’t. I also don’t know if that expectation was simply about cars, hard-earned money, and appearances; I imagine it was not.
And while I am uncertain about how or when or why that expectation was formed, I do know, however, where and when and why it changed.
The events leading up to this change of expectations began along 4800 West, or somewhere close to that road. During the summer of 2017, my teenage son borrowed my car—a white 2009 Suzuki Forenza—to go to his friend’s house, and as he was driving that day, my front passenger side hubcap popped off my car. He didn’t notice until he returned home that it was missing. So, there were numerous places that hubcap could have been along his two-and-a-half-mile route. It could have flipped into a ditch along 4800 West; it could have rolled off along 4920 West, hit a curb, popped into someone’s yard, then hid behind a garbage can; it could have spun in the street toward oncoming traffic and been smashed by a truck along New Bingham Highway, never to be found.
My son said he did look for it, but I knew finding the hubcap didn’t matter to him like it mattered to me, so I imagined his looking didn’t involve more than some casual glances at the roadside. So, I retraced his route, several times, driving slowly, searching for any evidence of a hubcap. I found various hubcaps, but they didn’t belong to my Suzuki. I’d often prop those missing hubcaps up against a tree or a traffic sign, thinking if someone was looking for their hubcap, it would be easier for them to find it.
And when I’d drive along 4800 West again, looking for but never finding my hubcap, and I’d see those same propped-up hubcaps, I couldn’t understand why they were left there, unclaimed. Was no one looking for them? Did their owners replace those hubcaps without trying to find them? Or did they give up because they had no idea where to look? And I began to wonder: Were other people just better than I was at letting go of their missing hubcaps?
As I think about my relentless yet unsuccessful trips searching for that hubcap, it seems the money I spent on gas to find it could have been used to buy a new one. But because my Suzuki was running on a miracle—a thirty-two-dollar can of sealant had patched a leaking head gasket—it didn’t seem prudent at the time to buy a new hubcap, especially for a car that could break down at any moment.
Still, daily, I thought about buying a new hubcap. I thought about it every time I walked past my car and looked at that front passenger-side tire. I felt frustrated and discouraged by those protruding lug nuts and the rust spots on the wheel that were no longer hidden—and what they represented. That missing hubcap and my inability to find it reminded me of all the things I hadn’t expected in life, all the things that felt lost, and all the things that were spiraling out of my control.
That missing hubcap reminded me that while I didn’t necessarily believe my life would be free of difficulties, I still hadn’t expected two of my five children—after years of family home evening and family scripture study—to not only leave The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but also harass me about polygamy and Joseph Smith and tithing and the Church’s wealth. I also felt little control over how I could live my faith while not straining relationships with my children. That missing hubcap reminded me that while I knew some trials in life were expected, I hadn’t expected my husband to experience debilitating anxiety within months of his release after many years of sacrificing time with him as he served as bishop for five years and stake president for ten. I also felt no control over whether I could stay with him and the turmoil his anxiety created in my life or leave him; neither choice felt like a viable option. And that missing hubcap reminded me that while I knew disappointment was part of the human experience, I hadn’t expected, after years of paying tithing, that our small business—our sole source of income—would struggle, while my husband was struggling, at a time when I’d finally been able to return to school after years of planning to finish my bachelor’s and pursue a master’s degree. And I felt little control over future plans, money and bills, cars breaking down, and God’s timing.
And so, I stewed. And I fretted about, and I begrudged not finding that missing hubcap.
Yet, the odd thing was that my Suzuki no longer had air conditioning—a $900 repair—and somehow, I had taken that in stride. But I couldn’t let go of that thirty-nine-dollar piece of plastic.
It was a hot summer day several weeks later when I finally did. I was sitting in my Suzuki with the window down, waiting at a traffic light, and a red Toyota with rust spots turned left in front of me. I noticed that Toyota was also missing its front passenger-side hubcap. I was amused by the coincidence, and I imagine I would have driven on and not thought about that Toyota again. But as God usually has to do with me, He gave me another opportunity to listen and to learn: Within a few seconds, a navy-blue Honda drove past me, and it was missing its front passenger-side hubcap too.
The moment I saw that Honda, with its missing hubcap, I knew neither car was a coincidence. And I felt God was compelling me to quit obsessing about my missing hubcap and see how others may have been discouraged, disappointed, and dismayed by life too. I not only wondered about the owners of those cars—and considered what jobs they might have lost or what loved ones might have cancer or what relationships might be strained—but I also prayed. I prayed that whatever their missing hubcap represented, one day they would find it or make peace with the things that felt reeling out of their control.
And in many ways, in that prayer, I made peace with driving my ready-to-break-down Suzuki. I know if it had a working air conditioner and a fully functioning head gasket, even though money was tight, I would have replaced that hubcap—likely with a fourteen-dollar generic one. But then, I would have missed God’s lesson.
I don’t believe God cracked my head gasket or broke my air conditioner or made my hubcap fall off my car, but I do believe He will use opportunities like those to teach me what He needs me to be. And even though I would prefer driving a car with four hubcaps and air-conditioning, I’ve learned I usually become more of what God wants me to be when my rust spots are showing.
Some days, I wonder if the broken air conditioner bothered me less than the missing hubcap because it was not evident to anyone else that my life was a mess, whereas I believed the missing hubcap announced to the world how my life was spinning out of control. While I don’t want to be one who complains all the time about my husband’s anxiety or my frustration with God’s timing or the harsh words my children have said to me—because I have been that whiny person—I need to figure out the balance between letting the world see my losses and complaining about them. It is when my friend knows about my brokenness and my misplaced expectations that she will be more inclined to share her heartache about her husband’s depression and her child’s drug use with me, and then we can help each other search for the things we might find in those lost expectations. And in that searching, as we prop up others’ missing hubcaps, we acknowledge their loss, their pain. That acknowledging might be all someone needs to continue on when they feel like their life could totally break down at any moment.
Yet, in many ways, despite my understanding of how missing hubcaps teach me compassion and patience and gratitude, I struggle to accept my missing hubcaps. I still fight against things I can’t control. I still find myself craving a seemingly perfect life without heartache—I want my children to seek God in their lives; I want my husband’s anxiety to go away; I still want to always own a car that I would and could pay $900 to fix an air conditioner; I want to drive a car that I would not stress about replacing a missing hubcap.
But I’m also grateful for the empathy—and less judgment—I feel each time I see a car with a missing hubcap. I like the me who prays for the driver of that car. I like the me who focuses on propping up others’ lost hubcaps. I like the me who can show my rust spots to the world and learn from them. I like the me who is grateful for the hubcaps that remain—the me who understands many in the world don’t even have a car while I have always had three hubcaps.
I recently graduated from school with my master’s degree, applied for and got a teaching position, and purchased a new-to-me car—a 2020 white Hyundai Tuscan. Not only does it have four hubcaps and a working air conditioner, but it also has heated seats, lane change assist, and a backup camera—more things than I expected to have in a vehicle. And while I am grateful that I no longer drive my patched-up Suzuki, I worry about the me who may no longer find the blessings in a breeze whisking through my open window on a blistering 97-degree day: I might have gained a hubcap but lost that.
