Entertaining Angels

One Monday morning I was headed in, a bit harried because Staff Chapel was set to start in about 20 minutes. I was 10 minutes out.

Houston roads are often a tangled mass of potholes and construction. So you pick your best route and hope that the swamp beneath our megacity hasn’t created another hazard over night. It had. And my route was leading me right into it.

The homily was equal parts encouragement and challenge, a dare, really. There was no way of knowing how soon the test would show itself. But it did, of course, and sooner than expected, of course. And it left me in a position to live my faith, or to let it all be nothing but noise.

Kirkwood Road and Lakeside Place Drive. My newly calculated path toward Staff Chapel lead me right there. It avoided the major backup at Memorial, which is buried behind construction cones and detour signs, heavy equipment and drivers who failed to adjust their own routes. I was going to breeze on over, hit chapel and have a neat-sweet day. Then I saw the enormous chughole.

Not to worry, though. I’ve rolled down Kirkwood a million times. I knew where to look and how to avoid the mess. Swerve a bit left, pull it back right, then make the turn onto Lakeside Place. No big deal. Not for me, anyway. But I wasn’t the only one out there that Monday morning.

A hundred yards up the side street stood a woman. She was behind a van. Her face was shining wet from tears that rolled down her face. It was an anguished face. And she was waving toward the only other car on the road: mine. She was trying to flag me down.

I was a bit annoyed, because I knew I had to stop. And I didn’t want to. Staff Chapel was about to start. If I had driven by, though, guilt would have slapped me in the head. Plus, there was something intriguing about this woman. I stopped and rolled down the window.

The face that spoke to me was African. Based on the smooth, strong features, she was Bantu. She was certainly a stranger in this country. Her accent was pure Nigeria, broken by a sobbing plea for help. She had hit the hole I’d avoided. Her front left tire was blown out, the rim dented, probably beyond simple repair. I really didn’t feel like getting out of my a/c and changing that tire. But, I had at least to go through the motions. So, I parked, got out, and met her.

She was utterly crestfallen at her situation. And I searched for any reason to leave her there and head on to Chapel.

·      She should have paid attention to the road. Everyone knows these roads are terrible.

·      She should have had AAA Roadside Assistance. There’s no way to know what creepy things could happen to a stranded motorist.

·      She ought to know how to change a tire, anyway. Women shouldn’t be dependent on men. They should be totally self-sufficient, strong, independent beings.

·      I don’t know how to access the spare, and it probably doesn’t have reliable air pressure, anyway.

·      I’m gonna be late for Chapel if I waste anymore time here!

But, I couldn’t leave her. So we started talking. She was, in fact, Nigerian.

I shared that I have friends among the Bantu people, from the Kikuyu clan. We had met during a trip to Maua, Kenya. I’d gone over to help at the Maua Methodist Hospital, and it took two entire days to get there from Houston. That was an intentional effort to be helpful. But now, faced with an unplanned, uninvited opportunity to serve someone in need, I had hesitated, even thought of excuses to drive away. But, for some unknown reason, I stayed.

The story of changing her tire is simple: I changed her tire. The road was blisteringly hot where I sat to get leverage while pressing the wheel on with my feet so my hands were free to work the lug wrench. My hands were filthy. It’s the same as any other story of changing a tire in the summer heat.

Sweat poured down my face. I must have looked much like she did when she had waved frantically for help.

She appeared at my shoulder then, holding the only thing she had to offer: a black silk shirt, fresh off a launderer’s hanger. It had been hanging in the van. Now she offered it to me to wipe my face.

And I felt so small.

I had thought it more important to make it to Chapel then to actually love someone. I looked for excuses for myself rather than solutions for the stranger. I stood charged by the words of my own pastor and leader in ministry, and convicted by a silent, outstretched hand holding a lovely, delicate fabric meant to wipe my sweaty, dust-covered face.

Perhaps to this stranded woman, I was the angel sent to save her in her distress. But when the spare was on the van and the flat was stowed in the “boot,” as she called it, this stranger looked me square in the face. She had a completely open, unguarded expression. She said: “I am grateful.”

Now, I think perhaps she was the angel, sent to carry a message to me. It is a reminder of thankfulness for the random chance to be decent, for the little victories over selfishness, and for the joy in simply changing a tire when someone knows no one else to help. It is the message of simply accepting gratitude.