Meredith is a good Catholic woman. A mother of three. A pillar in her church. So, I can only assume this story about her father is true, since good Catholics never lie.

It was 1939. America was swallowed in a Great Depression. Everyone’s old man was either out of work or about to be.

The 16-year-old kid was walking home from work, carrying a loaf of bread beneath his arm. His jeans were covered in white flour. There was flour in his hair. He had flour in crevices of the body he didn’t even know existed.

After his father died, the boy dropped out of school to work at the bread factory. The job paid poorly. But it was worth the trouble because he was around food all day. His mother worked two jobs. But they were falling behind.

On the walk home, the boy stopped by the church. He knocked on the parish priest’s office door.

“I brought you sourdough this time, Father,” said the boy.

The old cleric looked up from his desk. “Oh, I love sourdough.”

The clergyman knew the bread cost the boy more money than he had. The bread factory did not merely give away products to employees. But this bread was part of the deal.

“Are you ready for work?” said the priest with a paternal smile.

“Yes, Father.”

They walked outside to the church shed. The priest unlocked the garage door, then flicked on the lights. A half-demolished Packard sat beneath the humming lights. Dented, dinged, and rusted.

The priest popped the hood.

“Tonight we’ll begin repairing the engine block,” the old man said. “We’re going to be welding. You ever welded, son?”

“No, Father.”

“Then this is going to take a while. ”

They spent all night beneath the heavy engine, wearing goggles. They worked until 1 a.m.

This all started when the priest visited the junkyard, looking for a car to fix up for the parish. The church needed a vehicle, but had none. In a former life the priest had been a mechanic and a body man. He found this Packard in a scrapyard. It was a hidden gem. He bought it for pennies.

That same week, a 16-year-old kid came to his confessional. The father could tell how poor the boy was. He listened as the boy spoke of how he and he and his mom both walked more than eight miles to work, every day. Uphill. Through the snow. Both ways.

So the priest came up with a plan. He proposed a deal to the boy.

In exchange for loaves of bread, the priest would teach the kid to work on cars. It would be a fair swap. The priest would get his sourdough and pumpernickel; the kid would learn a trade.

And so it was, after days of welding, boring, and honing cylinder holes, they made steady progress. Bit by bit. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into a month. And one wintery night, the young man showed dressed for work, carrying a loaf of rye.

But tonight something was different.

Tonight, the priest was waiting for him by the shed, along with the boy’s mother, and a few convent sisters. The sisters were holding Christmas baskets, filled with fruits and jellies and hams. The boy’s mother was crying.

They all stood before a cream-colored Packard. A car which looked almost brand new. Almost.

There was a red ribbon around the car’s hood.

The priest handed the keys to a boy.

The two embraced.

“I thought this car was for the church,” said the boy, with tears in his eyes.

“I lied,” said the man of God.