In the summer of 1992, just after my high school graduation, I took a job assisting a real estate professional in Katy, Texas, about 30 miles from where I lived in Houston. My mom had just married my stepfather, Lou, and I was dealing with the sadness around that by going as far as I could for as long as I could until it was time to leave for college.

One day, my trusty beloved blue Toyota Corolla broke down. My mom needed her car, my high school boyfriend needed his car, and I couldn’t figure out what to do. I needed to get to work, for my own sanity and for my work ethic, and I hated to ask for help. After panicking for a while, I decided to call my friend Ed Williams, himself a 1992 Westbury high school graduate.

Since I met Ed, he’s loved cars. He drew cars at school, he talked about cars when we drove to school, he knew everything about every kind of car, and he hoped to be a car designer when he grew up. After making it through high school without a car, he had recently acquired a low-slung, red, sexy, complete junker of a car, an ancient 280ZX. He loved that car far more than it deserved.

Ed was hesitant — and yet Ed is a very kind guy. With some gentle persuasion (begging) he agreed. I walked over to his house in my very fancy work clothes in the early pre-dawn, and he gave me the keys to that car.

I hadn’t driven a stick shift in a year or two — as a matter of fact, I’d only been driving for a year or two, and had already been in several accidents. So his trusting me with his stick-shift, red 280ZX was an act of faith — an act of kindness.

That car was a total piece of crap. I’m not sure if it was a terrible car or I was a terrible driver or a terrible combination of both, but that was the longest round-trip drive I’ve ever taken. The car smoked, it stalled, and its rusty frame frightened me. I could barely get in and out of its low-slung seat. I prayed and prayed to get all green lights so I wouldn’t have to stop, downshift and start the entire painful process over. But I got to work. I got to work on time. I called Ed, telling him that both the car and I had made it without incident, and I brought the car back to him that evening.

I hate driving, it’s something I’ve always been especially bad at. I hate asking for help, acknowledging weakness is not a particular strong suit, either. But my memory of that day, stopped at the Katy Freeway toll booth and praying I could get the car started to drive away, reminds me of what it is to feel cared for. Of what it is to feel not alone in the world. Ed, loaning me his beloved car that he knew I could barely drive — That is just one yesterday that makes me appreciate Ed Williams and my own journey.