Serving God Where You (Ow!)
by Peter B. Steiger
07/30/06

You may feel like you'd walk across hot coals to serve the Lord, but I hope
you never have to prove it.

I love helping stranded people on the road - somebody else popped up out of
nowhere once when I was stranded on a Houston freeway in a bad part of town,
and I figure it will take a lifetime to repay the favor.  Unfortunately, I'm
totally clueless about cars and there's little I can offer except a cell
phone, a ride somewhere, and a shoulder to cry on.

My son called this afternoon from the city pool - well, more likely the front
lobby, but you never know with this boy - saying he was ready to come home.  I
had just started to cool off so it was all I could manage to throw on enough
clothes to run outside without getting arrested, run to the truck, and
drive back into town.  Just a couple of blocks down the road, I had to stop
for the light at the main highway where an SUV was definitely not moving,
and the nice man in the car behind was using his horn to make sure the
driver noticed that her SUV was not moving.  He finally backed up and went
around her, and I saw my opportunity to do one of those good deeds the
preacher is always nattering on about to keep me awake at church.

What I didn't see was my shoes.  It was just too hot out and I was in too
much of a hurry to pull on my stinky ol' socks and shoes, and I wasn't
planning to get out of the truck, so I just hustled out in my tattered old
bedroom slippers that keep about a molecule of fabric between my feet and
the various beasties that survived the floods in our carpet.  I figured the
slippers would do more harm than good flopping off my feet at an inopportune
moment, so I left them in the truck and ran from where I had pulled off the
road to where the lady was producing more tears than RPMs as her engine
failed to start.

I should mention at this point that the chilly mountain town of Cheyenne is
in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave, and it was about 95 degrees
at 3:30 in the afternoon when I made my little sprint across the highway to
her stalled SUV.  "Put it in neutral (ow!)", I gasped, "and I'll push you off
the road!"  She nodded and did something with the gears, and I attempted to
push.  I say attempted, because the 250 degree asphalt and my muscles that
have not seen ten minutes of exercise in twenty years said otherwise.  "I 
have a better idea!" I announced.  "I'll go get my truck and push you off
the road.  Wait here!"

Another sprint across the highway, which did not hurt nearly as much because
by now the nerves from my toes to my ankles had been cauterized, and I had
the truck started up - just in time to see some huge cowboy step behind the
SUV.  With one hand tied behind his back and a smug look directed at me, he
pushed the SUV, the driver, and the Flying Wallendas balanced on top neatly
around the corner and to the shoulder.  By the time I made it around to offer
further assistance, he already had the hood open, changed her oil, repolished
her spark plugs, and was recalibrating her carburetor with one hand and 
rotating her tires with the other.

Two hours later, I just had a good look at what's left of my feet in the
bathtub.  Glowing blobs of melted tar are stuck to big puffy blisters.  I 
mention all of this not to toot my own horn, because I feel too stupid right
now to toot anything, but to serve as a warning for others:  Not only should
you be prepared to serve God wherever you are, but make sure you take along
a sturdy pair of shoes.

Pass me another tube of Bactine, would you?