Last week, the car I just bought took a shit on me.
I brought it to my guy over at the Riverside Garage. He gave it a once over and told me the job was so big, he had to kick it to a bigger shop. He is honest as the day is long. I had just fixed the blower for the A/C and heat fan the week before. Two hits in two weeks on a car I just bought in late winter.
To put the cherry on top, I was driving home from the Southside Saturday night. I didn’t feel like taking surface streets, so I jumped on the 294. Somewhere along the way, a piece of trim near the windshield ripped off and flew into the expressway. I caught it tumbling in the rearview like a plastic tumbleweed.
So what did I do Sunday afternoon to collect myself?
I walked over to my local tavern, a solid Irish pub and sat down for a cold draft and some peace of mind.
About halfway into the pint, a woman walked in with a stack of flyers and a determined look. She went straight to Miro, the bartender, and asked if he was the boss. He hesitated but said yes. I figured it was business.
It wasn’t.
Her name was Barb. Her daughter had gone missing. Recently discharged from the nearby hospital with postpartum depression. She often came by the Chinese place next door to the pub, so Barb was canvassing the block. She asked if she could tape a flyer in the window.
I felt a wave of shame roll through me. I was feeling sorry for myself over a busted water pump, while this mother was out here, desperate to find her baby.
I told Barb her daughter, Anitra, who she lovingly calls Grace, would be in my morning prayers. She teared up, thanked me, and said she believed in the power of prayer.
After she left, I sat there with my beer in hand and felt a jolt. I'm sure it was my Oldman giving me a "you’ve got to be shitting me, son" straight from his eternal rest. Heaven is much closer than 220 South Lombard, which is just up the block in Oak Park.
All of it.... the timing, the conversation, the name Barb, a sacred family name. The postpartum connection, which I’ve always believed changed the course of my ex-wife’s life...
...it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was one of those signs from Heaven. And God has a way of delivering them like a steel-toed kick to the nuts when I'm in a "woe is me" mood.
I will drop three grand this week to get Francine the Ford Flex back on the road. That’s just life. Things break, you fix them, and move on... until the next thing breaks.
But that mother?
She might not get to fix anything. She might not get to hug her daughter again. Car maintenance pales in comparison to search parties and a possible funeral plan.
That glass of beer changed meaning halfway through. A glass emblazed with the Sox emblem. Which only added to the evangelical lesson that I was experiencing. Now Father Bobby from the Southside was involved in this signal from heaven
I finished my beer, had one more and went home to make George dinner. Before I handed him his plate, I gave the big magnificent son of a bitch a tight hug that lasted longer than usual. He asked me if I was alright and I told him that I loved him.
Something Barb might not ever get to do again.
Everything is temporary.
Cars.
Problems.
Even Keith Richards will play his final blues riff one day and Willie won't be on the road again.
So, as your Monday gets underway, say a prayer that Barb finds her baby girl.
And keep your eyes open Chalkheads for dimes on the curb and signs from heaven. They are out there and they are astounding...
