I know that we all try to minister to others as we pass by, but in this case I was on the receiving end of ministry as I passed through. It was January of 1974. I was 18 and as green as anyone could imagine. Two friends and I were going to leave home in my car with about $100 between us. The plan was to leave Cheyenne, Wyoming, go to California, where I would drop off my friends, and then proceed to Texas. We arrived in Albuquerque late in the evening, and before daybreak the car’s automatic transmission suddenly had stopped working in high gear and reverse.
That morning we pulled into the first transmission shop we could find. I was full of apprehension because I knew that transmission repairs often ran up into the hundreds of dollars. As the mechanic was checking the car, I explained to the manager that we had limited money but would be willing to work for a couple of days to bring the cost down to an affordable level. The repair turned out to cost only a few dollars, but he let me work the day anyway in return for the repair and even gave me an extra $10. I talked to the workers a little that day, but mostly I worked hard in order to live up to my share of the bargain.
After we arrived in California, my car developed major engine problems. My friends, who knew people in the area, vanished. Meanwhile my 16-year-old brother, who was touring the country by thumb, met me. After several weeks of unsuccessful efforts to get a job, I reluctantly left the car behind, and my brother
and I headed home hitchhiking. As we passed through Albuquerque, it was nearing dusk. Between the two of us we had eaten only four sandwiches in the last three days. So we stopped in at the transmission shop, hoping to find work for the next day to earn a few dollars. I explained my plight to the manager as a couple of the employees stood nearby.
But there was nothing that I was qualified to do except clean up the shop, and we had done such a good job a month earlier that cleaning would not be necessary again for quite some time. The manager left to go on with his work, and we lingered awhile, downing several cups of hot coffee (mainly, I suppose, because of the sugar which we had added to it).
As we stood there with our coffee, one of the mechanics who had been standing nearby approached me. He was one of the quieter employees, a big man without a very big vocabulary. He looked like the kind of simple-minded man who, if sufficiently angered, could really hurt someone. He seemed kind of distant as he spoke, explaining that if we needed a place to spend the night, he had room to put us up. Since there were two of us and one of him, and since we were worn out, hungry and cold (it was mid-January), we cautiously accepted. It was a long drive home. He had to pick up his wife, a friendly clerk who worked at the shopping mall, and also stop at a grocery store. I remember being surprised that he was even married, let alone to a friendly, reasonably attractive person.
The home, a small camper trailer, was up in the mountains: Almost two hours after leaving the shop, we finally arrived there. The mechanic then insisted on engaging two tired, hungry teenagers in a long, friendly conversation. We impatiently told him of our long adventure, as well as part of our life story, while his wife prepared some food. Although I no longer feared him, he was getting on my nerves since all I wanted to do was to go to sleep. Soon, to my surprise, we were served salads. They went down fast, after a prayer of thanks. As we ate, his wife asked us each how we wanted our steaks! I was so shocked that I couldn’t even answer intelligently.
Midway through supper I asked why the trailer was so cold, and he replied that the heater was broken and that they hadn’t had the money to fix it, and besides, he said, they had gotten accustomed to it. It began to dawn on me that these were poor folks, so I asked if they normally ate steak, potatoes, and fresh vegeta-bless for dinner. When they said no, I asked why we were doing so tonight. He replied, “In honor of our guests, of course.” and nodded towards us! A real feeling of humility began to creep over me and I suddenly felt very unworthy of the generosity of spirit to which I was being subjected.
As we drifted off to sleep later, under tons of blankets and still shivering, our host asked if we were cold and then proceeded to put the only source of heat, a small electric space heater, in the room in which we slept. I weakly protested, but I was indeed grateful. The next morning on the way to work, he asked my brother and me where would be the best spot for us to resume our journey. We said, “As close to Interstate 25 as possible.” As his wife neared the entrance ramp to let us off, he reached into her purse and handed each of us $2. That was the last straw. I asked him for his address. When he asked why, I said that I wanted to repay his kindness somehow. He asked how I intended to do that. I explained that the least I could do was to reimburse him for the expense he had put out on our behalf.
After the look of disdain had passed from his face, he said in patient, friendly tones that he wanted no money, that it had been his pleasure to have helped us, that he would be insulted if we even tried to pay him, and that, therefore, we didn’t need his address. Exasperated, I protested, “Isn’t there anything 1 can do to pay you back, ever?” He thought for a moment or two, and then looked back into my eyes and said: “Yes, there is one thing that you can do for me, and, in fact, I would appreciate it if you would.” “Tell me what it is,” l eagerly said.
“Pass it on.” “What?” “Next time you have a chance to help someone who is cold, hungry and helpless like you two were, do as much for them as we did for you. Be generous in helping those in need. Take this favor and pass it on. Will you do that for me?” As we climbed out of the back seat, I promised, “I will.” And to this day I am still mightily moved by the overwhelming generosity shown to someone so totally unworthy of receiving it.
