Freeport, Florida—my friend found a car stuck in a muddy ditch on a secluded road. It had just rained. The ground was soft. The thing was buried up to the bumpers.
It was full of Mexican women who didn’t speak English. My pal asked if they needed help—he happens to speak fluent hand-gestures.
All they could say was, “Please, yessir, thank you.”
They were a cleaning crew. Each of them had taken turns digging around the tires. Their uniforms were covered in mud. They had wet eyes.
My buddy strapped the vehicle to his hitch. It wouldn’t budge. He tried everything. No luck. So, he called some friends with trucks who lived nearby.
I was one such friend.
Three of our trucks lined up, side by side. We strung tow ropes to the vehicle, then hit the gas at the same time. Seven strangers, eight shovels, two Chevies, one Ford, and many years later…
My pal married one of those girls.
Quincy, Florida—Walmart. An elderly woman in the checkout aisle. She didn’t look good. She walked with a bent back, hunched shoulders, and carried a cane.
A manager helped her unload the cart. Then he paid her bill. A girl waiting in line videoed the whole thing on her cellphone.
The manager said to the girl, “Please turn off your camera, this doesn’t belong on Facebook. Show some respect, please.”
She put the camera away.
Then wrote me a letter about it.
Jonesboro, Georgia—he used to be a preacher. A good one. Then he had a wreck. It damaged his back. He got hooked on painkillers and whiskey.
The church fired him. He lost his wife, kids, and ambition. Which made him drink more.
One day, the church janitor showed up on his doorstep. He treated the former pastor to breakfast. Together, they ate too much bacon, drank too much coffee, and laughed too much.
He showed up again the next morning. And the next. It became routine. Soon, they were hunting together, going on fishing trips.
The preacher finally asked, “Why didn’t you write me off, like everyone else?”
The man showed him a sobriety token.
Anyway, I feel I owe it to you to admit: I don’t know much about life—I have the lack of training to prove it.
Even so, I’m a person who believes in something. In miracles. Small ones I’ve seen with my own eyes. In people. In things that terrify the sapsuckers who write the nightly news—folks who earn livings reporting on the worst mankind has to offer.
Well, I think life is a lot more than a string of bad headlines. If you don’t believe me…
You ought to attend a Mexican wedding.