A Lighter View
Miracles still happen
By K.E.H. Stagg

March 24, 2016

Those of us lacking the mechanical gene face a trip to the body shop the way most other people face a doctoral thesis: with fear, wrapped in paranoia, shrouded in apprehension.

I can tell the difference between an oil cap and a distributor cap, but that's where my mechanical expertise begins and ends. Something minor - like an illuminated tire pressure gauge warning indicator - is enough to send my blood pressure soaring because who knows what evil lurks beneath the innocent dash light? I'm also fairly certain my ignorance shines like a lighthouse beacon on a stormy night and am skeptical of mechanics trying to sell me unnecessary products or services. Not that this has ever happened, mind you, but like I tell the dentist when he wonders why I want to know if I need dentures or a root canal, "There's always a first time."

When I go to pick up my car and ask the mechanic, "So, what did you find?" I'm not really prepared for his response. He launches into a detailed explanation that sounds something like this: "Your automated defibrillator is knocking against the tire iron, causing spontaneous frictional upheaval. I moved the torque wrench to look at the timing belt, and --." Although his lips are still moving, I've stopped hearing what he's saying, because I am positive that every time he mentions another vehicle part, the cash register is dinging. Just when I've mentally weighed the option of re-financing my mortgage against paying on the installment plan until I'm 185 years old, I realize he's not talking any more.

I try to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. I ask weakly, "Is that it?"

"Yep," he says.

I wonder if that defibrillator he mentioned is anywhere nearby, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to need it once he tells me the cost. Drawing a shaky breath, I manage to inquire, "What's my total?"

I've already started to hyperventilate when he rattles off, "Eighteen sixty-nine."

"Where's the decimal point in that?" I ask.

"Decimal point?  Oh, right.  Haha!" He slaps my bill on the counter.

From my wavering vision, I locate the decimal point right in the middle of the number. My reaction is automatic. "Hallelujah!" I exclaim.
As my eyesight returns and I clutch the counter for support, I belatedly notice the icon-bedecked wall calendars. I hasten to assure the now scandalized mechanic that I'm not being blasphemous; I'm beyond grateful that I'll be getting change from a twenty-dollar bill.

When I wish my new best friend and his family every joy of the resurrection with unrestrained enthusiasm, he smiles and says, "Same to you."

I totter outside on unsteady legs, locating my car only because the fob sets its lights flashing. As I slide into the front seat, I can't help saying aloud, "Thank you, God!" It's not the miracle of the empty tomb on Easter morning, but it seems to me I've just received proof that divine intervention occurs in everyday life. I'm so convinced of it, I almost shout now: "Hallelujah!"