Church in a Tow Truck

My car broke down an hour from home, on a Sunday, after a writer’s conference. And the friend who traveled with me was sick. The only think I needed to make the situation worse was rain. Thankfully God held that back.

I sat with my friend in the car and tried not to imagine our ride home with a stranger is a tow truck. The last time I remember being under similar circumstances, my dad had died and our car broke down in West Virginia on our way to his funeral. A rather large station wagon arrived from a nearby towing company.

“This is probably one of the largest station wagons I’ve ever been in.” I tried to make small take since I was sandwiched between the driver and my husband. Our four kids filled the seat behind us, yet our luggage had ample room in the rear.

“Yes’um.” He reached over my knee to adjust the static of the country music station. “Work two jobs with this here, Nellie.” He patted the dash. “When I’m not towin’ I use her as a hearse.”

That ended my small talk.

I forced the memory from my mind as I sat in a similar situation. I hung up after I called AAA. “Someone should be here within the hour,” I said.

My friend smiled, closed her eyes, and then rested her head against the car door.

Our rescuer arrived thirty minutes later. An older man stepped out of the truck. Faded tattoos covered both arms and disappeared under the short sleeves of his back Tee shirt. He walked with the stride of a cowboy yet wore converse. His skin appeared leathered with a distinct contrasted from his white hair and mustache. He made a quick inspection of the car. I tried to answer his few questions.

The driver glanced at my companion and me. With a slight nod toward the truck he said, “One in the front and one in the back.”

I ended up in the front. I inspected the cab while I waited for my car to be lifted onto the truck bead. A sticker on the dash read, “No smoking, fasten seat belt, tipping okay.” I chuckled.

Above the review mirror hung a picture of a family—two girls, two boys, and possibly a grand child. In the photo, all surrounded the image of our driver. At least six more pictures were tapped on the upper edge of the dash window. A license hung from the mirror with the name Frank Bannick.

Frank entered the truck and asked for the mechanic’s address. He punched the information I gave him into his GPS before he eased into traffic.

“Nice family,” I said when the silence became noticeable.

He nodded. “Pray for them most days.”

I raised my brow. “You do?”

“Well, since I’ve been saved anyway.” Frank turned his head toward me and smiled. No, he radiated.

“How long have you been a Christian?”

“Since the week before Christmas. I knew God wanted me, but I kept running from Him. But when my cousin died, I stopped running.”

I did a quick calculation in my head. Frank had been living as a Christian for only ten weeks.

For the next hour, Frank shared his story with me. At times his eyes moistened. He’d apologize for his emotions as he wiped tear-brimmed eyes with the back of his hand.

He talked about prayer and the power of forgiveness. How he’d found God’s peace when it didn’t make sense. He shared about friends and family members he prayed for. And other who grieved him with their choices. He shared regrets he’d made with his children and how he asked God to help him point them to a heavenly Father.

Frank continued to talk after we dropped my friend off at one location and met my husband at the mechanics.

I thanked him for the ride and his openness. “I feel like I’ve been to church,” I said.

The broad smile I’d gotten use to seeing spread across his face again. “God, told me what I do is a ministry. I gotta keep trying to reach people. I gotta keeping praying.”

We exchanged business cards.

As my husband put my bags in the car, I watched the red tow truck pull back onto the main street. I won’t forget Frank. A baby Christian who wants to change the world—one tow at a time.