Samaritan in a Pickup
They bypassed her. The hood of her twenty-year-old Dodge was raised in the air, advertising her unfortunate situation. Maybe the steam wasn’t noticeable. The four ways were flashing, competing with the bright sun of the new morning. A car approached from the direction she had come. The passenger glanced, a woman, blond, maybe in her early forties, or late thirties. It appeared as if she looked right through the broken-down vehicle at the side of the road, not taking notice of the elderly woman wearing a light blue dress and a white sweater. They were on their way to church. They were late.
She watched the shiny dark blue sedan turn into the parking lot of Saint Stephen’s a short distance up the road. It wasn’t a cold morning for early September, still she wrapped her frail arms around her body to keep warm. The state road was rather quiet, not containing any of the dangers of a high-speed highway. Mildred Hart looked at the engine again. She knew nothing about cars. John, her husband was a mechanic, but he had been in heaven for sixteen years.
Another vehicle approached from the opposite direction. She figured the driver was moving too fast to take notice of a stranded elderly woman on the other side of the road.
“People are in a hurry,” she said out loud to herself. “Their church is a building… nothing more… a building and a scheduled time. Others are rushing to catch up to their past… never finding their present.”
She leaned against the warm grill. Another vehicle approached. She looked, a small car, foreign. Her husband would have never purchased a vehicle from overseas. He believed in American ingenuity and only American ingenuity. Her Dodge had done her well, until this Sunday morning, on her way to Saint Stephen’s to sit, pray, sing a few hymns and listen to God’s word.
The foreign car blew by, a Toyota or Honda, she didn’t know which. A young woman was alone in the car.
“Young women need to be careful when it comes to stopping for strangers,” she said to the rear of the passing vehicle.
She considered walking to Saint Stephen’s, after all it was her destination. The distance wasn’t too great, but her legs were old and her will was tired.
“Almost made it this morning, Lord.”
Maybe when church lets out someone would stop. Couldn’t be much more than a forty-five-minute wait, an hour at most. She considered returning to the car, sitting, waiting, saying a prayer. This would be her church today, stranded by the roadside, waiting for a Samaritan to stop and offer a hand.
Another vehicle came from the opposite direction, just as she settled back into the driver’s seat. She heard the ruckus long before it entered her vision. Her husband would have made a crude comment about puttin’ a muffler on the piece of…
“Help me to mind my tongue, Lord,” she said, “and my thoughts.”
An old pickup truck, rusted at the rear wheel well, slowed as it passed her. The driver looked her way, but all she saw was a mop of unruly hair and a dirty baseball cap. The truck came to a stop about fifty feet beyond her vehicle and maneuvered for a three point turn. The truck accelerated past her with the overbearing chorus of a rotted exhaust pipe and pulled to the side of the road a few feet ahead of her.
“If this is who you sent, far be it from me to argue.” She offered the quick prayer as she pulled herself out of the car.
“Havin’ trouble ma’am?” The driver of the pickup asked. Besides the long hair and baseball cap, he wore filthy jeans and a red flannel shirt. He appeared to be no older than her grandson Peter, all of twenty. Before she could respond to his question he moved to the front of the car and peered beneath the raised hood.
“I see the problem,” he said. “Hose busted at the radiator, dumped nearly all yer coolant along the road. Good thing you pulled over when you did.”
“I saw smoke. Thought I might try and make it to the church parking lot.”
The young man looked down the road, toward the lot filled with vehicles of Sunday morning church goers. “This was a good decision, if for no other reason than that I wouldn’t have seen ya sittin’ in the lot.”
“Can you fix it?” She asked.
“I’ll have t’ go to my father’s shop back up the road and get a few things. If you want I can drop you off at the church. I’ll be back in fifteen. Won’t take me no more than twenty minutes to a half hour t’ get ya on yer way home.”
She agreed. He helped her into his truck, after removing some tools from the passenger’s side floor. She prayed that the choir would be raising the steeple when the sound barrier breaking pickup truck pulled up out front.
~
When she entered the church, no one took much notice. The choir was singing a hymn she loved, and the congregation sang along with full voices. The young man with long hair and filthy jeans saw her to the double doors at the building’s entrance. He promised to return for her when her car was ready. She sat in a back pew and joined in the singing.
She lost track of time, but soon the organ was ramping up for the final hymn. She looked behind her to see if the young man had entered the church to wait for her. He had yet to return, but she didn’t concern herself, despite his outward appearance he had been sent by God.
As the Sunday morning worshippers made their way toward the back of the church she noticed the couple who had driven past her out on the road. The woman with blond hair nodded, lacking any notion of the grace she could have received by helping an old woman in distress. Mildred returned the greeting while waiting for the church to empty.
“Morning Mildred.”
Pastor Whiting stepped into the pew behind her and offered his hand in greeting. She took it in her all-too-weak grasp and squeezed lightly.
“It’s good to see you this morning,” he added with a joy filled smile.
“I almost didn’t make it,” she replied.
“Oh,” Pastor Whiting inserting, offering her a chance to continue.
“My car, it’s quite old. It has seen better years. It seems to have had a problem with one of the hoses at the radiator. It started steaming up a few hundred yards down the road.”
“Goodness, tell me one of the members of the congregation helped you out. Please don’t say you walked here.”
“Oh no, I don’t think these old legs would have made it. My doctor wants me to get a walker, but they’re such pains.”
“The doctors or the walkers,” he joked.
“Both I believe.”
“So how did you get here. Who in our congregation is the Good Samaritan?”
“No one, but I understand their hurry. Everyone is in such a hurry these days. But this young man, who had probably never stepped into a church, stopped. Seems to be a mechanic of sorts, like my John. He said he could repair my car. I expect he will meet me out front. He didn’t seem willing to enter the church.”
“A stranger, I’m not so sure how safe that sounds.”
“I prayed. He was sent. I’m not so sure I should refuse the help the Lord has offered to me.”
“I think I will need to preach about the Parable of the Good Samaritan in an upcoming sermon.”
She smiled, stepped out of the pew and made her way through the double doors. Her Dodge sat at the sidewalk, idling. Leaning against the hood was the young man, long hair and baseball cap in place.
“You were able to fix my car,” she said as she slowly moved past him.
“Never had a doubt. A new hose and a little anti-freeze, that’s all it took. Good as any other old classic on the road.”
“Can I pay you, at least for the hose and the fluid?”
“Nope.” He shook his head, sending his unruly hair into an elaborate dance around his smiling face.
“But…”
“I’ve received my payment. Anything else would just take from my reward.”
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