Mr. Good (Samaritan) Wrench

 

But a certain Samaritan,

as he journeyed, came where he was:

and when he saw him,

he had compassion on him.

                                    -- Luke 10:33

 

            My car is gettin' on 100. One hundred thousand miles, that is. It was sputtering and wheezing the other day when the "Service Engine Soon" light came on. We limped to the car E.R. The automobile geriatrician, a big, friendly, strapping guy, said repairs would cost nearly $700 and would probably take all day. Yowsa! Ouch! Yikes!

 

            All day? I had no way to get home, hadn't brought my cell phone, and had already perused the waiting-room magazines. Who, me? No multitasking?

 

            My face must have shown my distress, because the car fix-up guy smiled kindly, pulled a chunky strand of keys out of his back pocket, and said, "Here! It's the blue Dodge in the back."

 

            Who, me? Drive YOUR personal vehicle? Does he have a CLUE that I'm in the Car Insurance Hall of Fame for having not one, not two, but FOUR fender-benders before the ripe old age of 17?!?

 

            I couldn't believe how nice he was, trusting me like that. His vehicle was a huge blue pickup truck with a king cab, mondo engine and a really sweet topper at the back. VROOM!!!! RUMBLE, RUMBLE!!! It was a Dodge RAM 1500 HEMI 5.7L MAGNUM.

 

            A HEMI! As in . . . fast enough to transverse the HEMI-sphere in just a few hours, with the pedal to the metal.

 

           

            I had to pole-vault to get up into the driver's seat. My feet could barely stretch to meet the pedals. I was afraid to readjust his mirrors, so I just craned my neck. My hands wouldn't even close around the steering wheel; it was encased in thick, macho black vinyl. As in . . . get a grip! Literally!

 

            I loved the whiskey-voiced singers on the country and western station the radio was tuned to. Cheatin'! Fightin'! Lovin'! Leavin'!

 

            I loved the gigantic Pecos Bill workgloves under the dash.

 

            I loved the pliers and nippers and other little tool dealies I didn't even know the names for, in the driver's side door caddies.

 

            I loved seeing 42 straws still neatly in their papers, stuck up in his visor. He must be an ex-smoker who likes to chew on them, or else he never wants to be caught without a straw on a fast-food run. Some guys are just that way.

 

            I loved seeing the dog hair all over the seats, and the manly duffle bag, hunting blanket and jacket thrown across the back.

 

            Most of all, I loved how THIN I felt, driving such a gi-normous truck.

 

            A chill ran down my spine, realizing that at any moment MRS. Pecos might see me! She'd chase me down, pull me out and beat me up! The whiskey-voiced singers said so!

 

            Nah. With a man like that, she'd be nice, too. The Lord has rewards for His Samaritans, you know.

 

            There's a bumper sticker: "A MAN'S TRUCK IS HIS CASTLE." Yup. Exactly. And in this case, both truck and man were big, friendly, gracious and eager to serve.

 

            It was extra-sweet to be invited in to his world, and trusted with his treasure.

 

            Nearly seven hours later, I carefully parked it back in place, thanked him, and barely winced writing the check. I'd love to return the favor someday, though he might not like the ultra-moisturizing Pear Glacé hand lotion and pearlized lip gloss in the dashboard compartment, or Maddy's Sponge Bob and Strawberry Shortcake stickers all over the back seat.

 

            The thing is, he welcomed me into his world. He made what could have been a real drag into a fun experience. He came through for me. It was a much-needed tune-up for my spiritual engine, too.

 

            That's the kind of person I'll bring my business back to, over and over again. And no, not just to drive that truck. Well . . . mebbe . . . she drawled with a whiskey-voiced sigh and a tear in her eye.

 

            Givin'! Lovin'! And handin' over the keys to his kingdom to a total stranger . . . with a crooked grin and a good-feelin' heart. †