An Old Car, an Old Convict, and God

I met an old convict one afternoon at a small prison chapel service. Someone who ministered there earlier warned me in advance this man rarely said anything, but that before going to prison, he had been a restorer of old cars. As there were only a few of us in the chapel, and two hours ministry time available, I decided to ask the old man a few questions about his hobby.

When I showed an interest in old cars, it loosened his tongue. He told of finding an old rusted relic that had been abandoned in a farmer's field. It had no doors. The weather had eaten the paint away. The seats were in tatters. The bent hood covered a motor that had been worked on, then abandoned as a lost cause. Yet to him, the farmer's trash was a treasure.

He told how he bought that old heap, put it on a trailer, and hauled it home to his garage. Then began the long process of restoring it to its original condition. He found the replacement doors in the eaves of another farmer's shed. He actually hand made some of the parts for the motor that were no longer available. In fact, that turned into a small cottage industry when he made even more of the same for other restorers of vintage vehicles. The money he made went into his own project.

He spoke friendships he had made along the way in the years-long process of restoring that junker into a vehicle that became the prize-winning "jewel of the show" at restoration rallies. The old convict spoke on and on, caught up in the memories. That first car, and the others he later restored, had been sold to help support his family when he was placed behind bars. Yet in his mind, they were still as real as if he could reach out his hand and lay it on the soft leather seats and sleek painted hood. It was plain that amid the ruins of own wrecked life, those memories were the high point of success, pride, and achievement. He loved that car. He loved how he felt and who he was back when he was still in the process of making it shine, back before everything had gone so terribly wrong. He spoke quietly for more than a half an hour while the rest of us sat and listened.

Finally, the old convict finished. There was a long silent moment. I looked over at him and said, “That's just what God is doing in your life, my friend.” Tears welled up in his eyes and began rolling down his cheeks. God wasn't finished with him. Not yet. And I knew God wasn't finished with me either.

"For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus..." Ephesians 2:10 NIV