The Hand of God

"Never forget to do good and to share what you have with others, because sacrifices like these are very pleasing to God." - - Hebrews 13:16

It was one of those cold Detroit nights, the kind where rain hurts and the moon refused to hide behind clouds that shrouded its glow.  There, broken down by the side of the road, Glen spotted an eyesore that could only be referred to as a "car" by someone who was either a liar or a good friend.   An unsightly mixture of rust and grey primer marked the vehicle’s exterior. 

He could think of a dozen more reasons not to stop on this dangerous stretch of freeway.  Surely the Highway Patrol would be along soon.  In his best wool suit, he wasn’t dressed for auto repairs anyway.  Hell, he was the world’s worst mechanic; his kids nicknamed him ‘Mr. What’s-a-wrench.’ Once when his engine light came on, he bought a can of 10W-30, and proceeded to pour its contents into the transmission.  The boys down at the garage suggested he get a horse.  

So Glen drove on by, just like hundreds of other drivers on the expressway that night . . . and felt guilty about it.  He turned off at the next exit and made his way back to see if he could at least give the driver a lift somewhere.  As he approached the stranded car, a voice from under the hood shouted: “Ok, try it now!”  The woman driver reached for the key and turned it.  The engine started, but sounded like a lawnmower with tuberculosis. 

"It was your serpentine belt," the man explained, wiping greasy hands on his pants.  "It slipped off.  It's pretty worn.  You should take it to a mechanic; get a new one put on."

She tried to give the Samaritan some money, but he declined and waved as she drove off.   It wasn't until the two men started walking toward their cars that Glen noticed the Samaritan’s family sitting in their station wagon, waiting patiently.  "Do you stop and help people like this often?"  Glen asked.

He shrugged.  "Somebody has to," he said.  "What's she gonna do if nobody helps?"  For him, that was reason enough. 

If we truly want to walk in Jesus’ footsteps, then we need to ask ourselves that question, too.  No matter how many reasons not to.

Glancing in her rearview mirror, she realized something about the stranger who stopped to help.  Somehow he appeared every time she was in trouble.  He never looked the same; sometimes he's a woman.  His age and ethnicity vary.  But he's always there. 

He’s the best part of what makes us human – the spontaneous kindness of a stranger, the invisible cord binding us together that makes life worthwhile.

Almighty Father, when I find myself immersed in the clutter and bustle, annoyed by long lines, baffled about how I'll get everything done, remind me:  One of the people in that crowd is the stranger.  Today, maybe it should be me!  Amen