city street

I heard a story once about a man who was driving down I-95 one day, fighting Philadelphia traffic to get to work. On the side of the road he saw a car with a flat tire, a woman with grey hair and stooped shoulders leaning against the hood.

He had a split second to make a decision. The car’s inertia carried him onward.

But his mind went backward, back beyond the woman with grey hair, back in time to that Sunday’s sermon, back to the parable about the two men who passed by and the one man who stopped to help a fellow traveler.

He drove into the parking lot at work, put the car in park, reached for the ignition. Paused. Put the car in reverse, got back on the highway, fought the traffic, found the old woman stopped on the side of the road, helped her change her tire.

She thanked him, reached for her pocketbook to offer him a few bills. As she did so, he saw the wounds in the palms of her hands.

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