Christ’s love has the first and last word in everything we do. Our firm decision is to work from this focused center: one man died for everyone. That puts everyone in the same boat. He included everyone in his death so that everyone could also be included in his life, a resurrection life, a far better life than people ever lived on their own. Because of this decision we don’t evaluate people by what they have or how they look. We looked at the Messiah that way once and got it all wrong, as you know. We certainly don’t look at him that way anymore. Now we look inside….. (2 Corinthians 5, The Message)

We were on our usual rush home from Philadelphia, on the Saturday after thanksgiving. For a decade or so, while Bonnie’s brother Dwight was still with us, we’d all gather there where he and his family lived, in Dwight and Margaret’s home, around his bed. Dwight suffered paralysis at the age of 18, and now thirty years later could no longer leave his bed. So we gathered there.

Wonderful memories linger, but we couldn’t! Because of my pastoral ministry we always left early on Saturday morning to rush home for the first Sunday of Advent. It’s a twelve to thirteen hours — the first half across the beautiful but treacherous Pennsylvania Turnpike. Winding from beginning to end, its highlight is a trek through the Laurel Highlands with its tunnels through the allegheny Mountains. I’m here to tell you that in late November it is always snowing or icy up there!

On one of those snowy Saturdays having come through the last tunnel and about an hour northeast of Pittsburgh a sudden bang, a warning light, and a quick rumbling roar told us about a flat tire. Thankfully already in the right lane, we pulled over as far as we could on the shoulder while I immediately cursed the gray day. We were in a hurry and had a long way to go. It was cold, snowy/icy, and dangerous. And the spare tire was deep down under our packed minivan trunk.

Feeling sorry for myself, seemingly out of nowhere I noticed lights of a pickup truck behind us, and then in my rear-view mirror a shady looking character coming toward me. It hadn’t been but a minute, almost as if he had been waiting for us. As he came close and stood at my window my fear allowed me only to open it a bit: he was disheveled, heavily tattooed, and blowing cigarette smoke at me, and we were out in the middle of nowhere. He said, “Hey, why don’t y’all get out of the van”, and I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.

“Name’s Kermit” he said. This is a dangerous spot. I’ll get that spare tire on there, and then you follow me into town. Let’s get you to a safe place. The owner of the tire shop’s a good friend. He’ll get you back on the road.” So we bundled up and unpacked and Kermit took care of business. I was wondering how much this would cost and was sure he’d take advantage of us even as he muscled the spare tire lug nuts into place. We followed him into town and while the hazards flashed I wondered what kind of hazard we were getting into. Probably would have been better to just wait a while for a real tow truck guy. It was a small small town, and it was thanksgiving weekend. Anything could happen. I remember even thinking “maybe I should turn around, peel off and travel on to some other more reputable place…” even after what Kermit had already done, just because he didn’t fit my image of a solid, trustworthy guy.

Here’s what Kermit did to teach me a holy lesson. He called up his buddy who I’m sure was enjoying his family by the fire, who arrived just to open up the garage for us. While I stayed with the van (still swimming in my unfair perceptions), Kermit took Bonnie and the girls over to the one restaurant in town and ordered them up an Italian pasta lunch. While they were there, a few other guys showed up at the garage to watch the spare come off and a new tire go on. They shared regret about our debacle. They smoked together, and told each other under the breath jokes. And Kermit said, as I prepared to leave, “Now you highfalutin big city folks remember us small town folk out here!” And we all laughed together. The Bill was fifty bucks for the tire. No labor charge, and Kermit refused my attempts to stuff a fifty dollar bill into his coat pocket. “C’mon, it’s thanksgiving, man!” he said. Again, we all laughed together.

It was a bit over an hour, maybe an hour and a half in all from the blowout to our trip’s resumption.

The lesson is obvious and holy. These dear folks joined Kermit in serving us at the expense of their own family celebrations. With good cheer they served and blessed us like good samaritans in the old, old story. I can only speak for myself about the unfair and hurtful perceptions I had about these folks who served us as if they were expecting us in the first place. I failed to give a look inside because of what I saw on the outside; so Kermit and his friends showed me, showed us the good that loving servant hearts can do in the world.

Kermit will forever remain an important person in our family memories. To this day I wonder if he and the rest of them were angels after all.

Love From Here!

Peter Hawkinson