She Has 271,587 Miles Left

Today, my wife said goodbye to her 2015 Honda Pilot.

It was not an attractive car (particularly as of late), but it had lived a full life. By the time we handed over the keys, the odometer read 271,587 miles.

I found myself thinking about the bracha one says when purchasing a new car. Sometimes the appropriate bracha is shehecheyanu. But when the benefit is shared with others, the bracha is Hatov VeHaMeitiv, thanking Hashem not only for what we have received but also for the good that others will receive through it.

That bracha subtly asks us to think not only about what we have acquired, but about what it may allow us to give. When we receive something new, what do we imagine it is for? Is it mainly for our own comfort, our own convenience, our own plans? Or do we see it as something that can help us show up for other people?

Chaviva’s Honda Pilot did a lot of showing up. It carried people to appointments and smachot, to airports and hospitals, to homes where a visit was needed and places where a favor could not wait. A challah dropped off before Shabbos. A ride that could not wait for someone else to offer it. I can picture my wife pulling up outside someone’s house countless times, not making much of it, just doing what had to be done. Another ride. Another errand. Another small act of care that would never be counted anywhere.

Except, of course, it would be counted. Not by her. Not on the dashboard. But in the quiet accounting of a life lived with purpose, those things matter.

I once heard my dear friend, Rabbi Avraham Willig, recount something his late mother-in-law, Rebbetzin Henny Machlis z”l, would ask her children and grandchildren. “If I have ten dollars in my pocket,” she would say, “and someone comes to the door asking for tzedakah, and I give him two dollars, how much do I have left?”

“Eight,” they would answer.

She would ask again.

“Are you sure? I had ten dollars, and I gave away two. How much do I have left?”

Again, they would say, “Eight.”

“No,” she would tell them gently. “You have two.”

She would then explain that the eight dollars still in your pocket may or may not remain yours in any lasting way. You may spend them wisely, or you may not. You may lose them. They may pass through your hands and leave no real trace. But the two dollars you gave to another person are yours forever. No one can take them away. They have already become part of you.

Perhaps that is what an odometer cannot measure. The miles we drive for ourselves fade into the past. But the miles spent carrying someone else to a doctor’s appointment, to a hospital, to a simcha, or simply to where they needed to be, those miles we keep.

The Torah does not ask us to reject the material blessings we are given. A car, a home, a livelihood. These are ordinary things. But in the hands of someone who wants to do good, ordinary things become instruments of chesed.

That is what made saying goodbye to this car feel unexpectedly meaningful. It was only metal and rubber, coffee stains and worn seats. But for many years, it helped carry something sacred.

Cars wear out. Engines fail. Paint fades. Odometers stop counting. But every act of kindness leaves behind something that does not depreciate.

Her 2015 Honda Pilot has spent 271,587 miles. Every last one of them well.

My wife? She still has 271,587 miles left.