Just an old truck

Used to know a wonderful farmer back in my Saskatchewan days. Nice middle age bachelor who kept pretty much to himself. He hadn’t been to church in a while but was still connected to the church in some small insignificant way. I had been given a list of people who were, “members and adherents” and noticed his name as someone I had yet to meet. So I asked and found out he was a brother of one of the men.
He lived in the immensely large old Four-Square farm house on a seldom used side road just north east of town. It was time for a visit. After all, I had covered most of the people in the first couple of months and why not. The directions were precise. “You can’t miss it. Hasn’t been painted since the war.” And there is was, sitting a 1/4 mile back from the road (to avoid dust from the road I was told). As I arrived I took note of a small nondescript red tractor going forward and back followed by a black cloud churned up by the cultivator. I stopped in the lane and watched as him drove away and down the field and came back. When he finished the second row, feet from the car, he stopped and powered down. I ventured out onto the field as this thin, wiry dark-haired farmer jumped down and put out his hand. I told him he didn’t have to stop cultivating if he didn’t mind if I rode along. It was idle chit chat for a number of minutes until he turned abruptly and demanded as he looked me straight in the eye; “Why are you here?” In my own direct reply I told him I wanted to meet him and didn’t care if he came to church. Just as quickly he turned around resuming his driving and chit chat. To say the least, we became good friends.
When summer was ending, I offered to help him with getting the crop off before winter. He took me up on the offer and told me he would give me thorough training before venturing out on the field. A day was set and one morning early I arrived to find the farm deserted. Or so I thought. About half hour after arriving, out he came, wiping his breakfast from his face. Almost without appoligy he informed me I was too early as the grain is usually tough before nine.
Working together we forged ahead getting everything fueled up and check and greased. Then to the field. I would drive the old ‘24' Massey and he would drive the 1955 Ford grain truck. My training took all of five minutes. There I was going back and forth, back and forth. One load after another after another. It was now midnight and again, the grain was getting tough.
The next day, I was there a little later. Today I would offer to trade places and drive the grain to town. No was his answer, "You're doing fine. And it wouldn't be safe, after all, the truck didn’t have brakes.” Hadn’t for a good number of years and you need to know how to drive it just so . . . I bet it did. Eight miles to town with each load and eight miles back empty. To tell you the truth, he never did fix the brakes.
Life is like that sometimes. We are just going, going, going through life and there is nothing to stop us. Use the horn to warn others your coming. Or just make it louder. Don’t worry about the brakes until. . . until we come to a crossing in the road where life changes direction and we find ourselves in the ditch or worse, wrapped around some innocent fellow traveller. I think God gave us guidelines for life, just like the lines on the road to keep us on the right side and keep us safe. And sometimes He gives us, in my word, brakes to keep us from crashing and burning. It is not just our physical life that needs tune-ups, spiritually we need them to. Take your heart back to the manufacturer. By the way, do you need your brakes repaired?
Something to think about.
Rob