What Life Lessons I Learned From Pinewood Derby Cars
This is the first in a short series of entries—perhaps there will only be two. We shall see. This entry is about the Pinewood Derby Cars my sons made when they were Cub Scouts…many years ago. Perhaps some of you had sons who were also Cub Scouts and you, too, engaged in the great Pinewood Derby Car adventure.
For those of you who didn’t have the privilege of this adventure, let me give some background. As I recall, this event came up in the spring. (I know someone will correct me if I’m wrong, which is highly possible.) Each participating Cub Scout was issued a rectangular block of plywood, wheels and axles. The goal was to turn these parts into a derby car and race it against the cars of your fellow scouts.
For about a month two years in a row (my sons are one year apart and you could participate for two years), a portion of our garage was turned into a Derby Car Manufacturing Plant. Believe me when I write that I have absolutely no skills in this regard. I looked at that rectangular block of plywood and left the room.
My husband had a collection of wood files, sandpaper and carving knives for the boys to use in shaping their car. No one was hurt in the manufacture of these cars. Lots of sandpaper.
My role was that of cheer leader. “Wow, you are doing a great job. That looks more like a race car all the time!” Right. I was also in charge of snacks. One afternoon I walked into their workshop space with that afternoon’s offering of snacks and lo and behold there were race cars on the table being painted. It was amazing!
After the paint dried, what was left was testing them on a makeshift racetrack which led to lots of little alterations to make the cars steadier and faster. More sandpaper action.
The actual races with all the scouts present (and their noisy, cheering parents) was a lot of fun. No, this isn’t going to be a story that culminates in the heroic win by one of the cars my sons made. Not at all. Frankly, it was a lot of fun for everyone, although there were some very disappointed faces in the room. The big cake decorated with an image of a race car took care of much of that disappointment.
The second year I paid a little bit more attention. At one point, I asked the boys how they knew how to turn the block of wood into a car.
“I have an idea of what I want it to look like and I cut away everything else,” said one of my sons. I had to ponder that. I’m not sure that would have been enough instruction for me. I think I would have a small pile of discarded pinewood on the floor before I got something at least recognizable as a race car.
That wasn’t as stupid a Q & A as it might appear at first glance. As I pondered this for a while, something stirred a deep memory. I looked it up and this is what I found.
Evidently, Michelangelo was asked how he was able to sculpt such an intricate statue as his famous David. His supposed reply, at least the reply that was passed down through history:
”It’s easy. You just chip away the stone that doesn’t look like David.”
Methinks now that Michelangelo was just funning with this fella. But I pondered further.
Have you ever gone through struggles that were difficult, maybe even painful? Something that lasted a bit until something happened to make it end or you changed, or the other circumstances changed, or all of the above.? I know I have.
Sometime after this Pinewood Derby experience I had another of those struggles. I don’t now recall what it was specifically, but it was tough. I was troubled and couldn’t figure out how to make things better. And in that experience, it seemed as if I could feel the sandpaper rubbing against me, shaping me into a different person. Or a person with a different perspective.
Let me say, that sandpaper experience is not comfortable in any way at all. Change is rarely comfortable. It’s taken me years to recognize this process. Hey, those sons of mine have children of their own now. Just as a couple of those Pinewood Derby cars were not sleek but rough and nearly misshapen, I have rolled out of a struggle or two much the worse for the sanding. But I learned something every time.
Now that I’ve gone through more of these than I can count (dunno—maybe I’m a slow learner), I have started to look for the lesson when I recognize there’s a struggle instead of just praying for it to end. I know the lesson is coming. Somehow finding comfort and assurance in the inevitable outcome of the lesson, unknown as it was at the time, makes the sandpaper less abrasive. I can take it.
In the next entry in this series, I will detail how the struggle can get extreme. That’s because the issue leading up to it was extreme.