He drives a faded maroon Ford Escort station wagon with peeling clearcoat.  He smokes.  He has a handicapped adult daughter.  And I believe he knows Jesus.

Those of you who reside in Pennsylvania and have a CDL have experienced the feelings of dread that arise within your heart when that white envelope is found nestled within your mailbox.  Lurking in the evelope’s interior is a notice that your CDL medical card is expiring.  Along with the notice is a stark warning of impending doom if your new card is not promptly received.  

The PennDot office experience was quite a shock for this uninitiated Western Kansan, and is the cause of the afore mentioned feelings of dread.  At the time I exited the Sunflower State, the Dodge City DMV office was considered crowded if there were more than 3 people in line ahead of you.  The PennDot office, as I found out, contained enough waiting souls to start a Western Kansas town.  A small novel such as “War and Peace” may be necessary to help you pass the time as you wait.

After declaring me reasonably fit and of somewhat sound mind, my doctor kindly instructed his staff to fax my new card to PennDot in Harrisburg.  Based on an experience of nearly losing my CDL, I decided to take my medical card into town in-person to ensure its safe processing.  I made a trip to Reading and the line stretching down the sidewalk quickly squashed any notions of a profitable day.  I resolved to awaken early on Saturday and drive to Allentown, where the lines are usually less disheartening.

I blearily hit the road early Saturday morning, forsaking breakfast and my customary cup of Joe in my haste to be the first one in line.  I ended up placing third in the race, but my caffeine-starved brain felt quite satisfied with itself.  Behind me in line were two ladies of darker descent, the older clearly acting as caretaker of the younger, who had special needs.  Their chauffeur sat in the lot in the faded maroon Ford wagon, parked next to my rusty tan GMC.  The younger lady soon left the line to sit with the man in the station wagon.  

PennDot opened their doors and business commenced.  I was speedily helped by a friendly worker, who cheerily stated that my records had already been updated.  Shocked, I happily arose and skipped out of the door.  As I approached my conveyance, the driver of the maroon Ford removed his cigarillo and belted a cheery “Good morning!”  I returned the greeting with a smile and a “Hello!” to which the driver commented on God’s beautiful morning.  I agreed, as it truly was one of Pennsylvania’s finest.  I climbed into my ride and prepared to leave, but I couldn’t shake the thought of the two souls parked next to me.  I vainly searched the dusty cab of my truck for some Gospel literature but came up empty-handed.  Thinking of the $20 in my billfold, I plucked out the bill, exited my vehicle, and hunkered down beside the Ford’s open window.  

“I see you have a responsibility,” I stated.  “Yes, I do,” he replied.  “My daughter is 30, but the doctors say that she’ll never mentally progress beyond 12 years old.”  I then told him about my mother’s diseases, her care needs, and her passing.  “We can’t make it without God,” I ended.  He agreed wholeheartedly.  I then passed the $20 through the open window and urged, “I’d like you to have breakfast on me today.”  He hesitantly accepted the bill with thanks.  I told him to take care and once more climbed into the cab of my “trusty rusty.”   Before I could select “D” I heard some toots of the horn beside me. 

My new friend soon stood outside my passenger window, which I rolled down.  He removed his porkpie hat and said quietly, “God moves in mysterious ways.  Can I have a prayer with you?”  “Sure,” I blurted.  He reverently bowed his head and began, “Heavenly Father, you have told me that people like this exist, but I have seen so very few of them……You see this man with his great big heart……Please bless him and his family today.  Amen.”  My eyes, no longer dry, lifted to meet his.  We exchanged parting words and I drove out of the lot with a watery view that windshield wipers couldn’t remedy, feeling humbled and unworthy.  I wish I could remember the entire prayer, but memory fails me.

I don’t believe Heaven will have a smoking section, but when by God’s grace I arrive, I will not be surprised if I meet a dark-skinned gentleman wearing a porkpie hat.