A Moment of Unexpected Grace

I dropped two grandsons off at the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal. The boys’ full lives drew them back home to the Island. Grandma and I remained on the Mainland to watch a granddaughter compete in the Provincial Track and Field Championships.

A cranky back left me a little grumpy and in need of a Diet Coke.

I went looking.

In the A&W parking lot by the Tsawwassen Mills shopping mall, I happened across a Show and Shine event—no plan, just a gift of grace, a brief invitation to remember another kind of home. Dozens of vehicles, restored, customized, preserved, and buffed to perfection: classic cars, muscle cars—Mustangs, Camaros, Chargers, antiques, and some European-flavoured models.

Memories of times past and dreams unfulfilled.

I had to pull over, take a walk, chat with a few owners, and snap a couple of pictures. At the tail end of one row was a Ford 250 Camper Special pickup. I used to own one of those. A dark maroon Alfa Romeo roadster brought back memories of my recent Titanium-coloured Fiat 128 Spider winding down the Oregon Coast—close enough to Italy’s Amalfi Coast.

I recognized the dialect. The nouns were old friends: Straight-4s and 6s (referring to engines with four or six cylinders in a straight line), slant 6’s (a six-cylinder engine tilted to one side), small-block V8s, Chrysler’s Hemi V8 and Chevy’s Big-block. The phrases needed no exegesis: “I swapped in a 350 Chevy,” “listen to that Hemi idle,” “where did you dig up that Slant-6?” “that Holley 4-barrel carb is music to my ears,” and “look at that – a Hurst cue-ball shifter! Classic!”

I’ve been to bigger and better shows. After all, the Northwest Deuce Days come to Victoria every three years, where 100,000 of the clan gather to view over a thousand classic vehicles.

The impact surprised me. My mood shifted. I felt at home.

The language was familiar, but there was more: the smell. In my youth, I entered the house through my father’s shop. The smell of grease and oil hung like incense. I remember being 8 years old and washing car parts in a solvent bucket. My mother would make me strip before being allowed entry into the house, and my father would be chastised because I stunk. No amount of lotion could erase the odour from the creases of my hands.

For some, the sacraments come in the form of a morsel of bread and a thimbleful of juice. For me, my hands received a ratchet and a wrench and, at day’s end, a Root Beer my Dad had stashed in the back of the shop. Accepted. I had a place.

Walking the rows, interspersed with the occasional conversation, felt good—being among people who deeply valued craftsmanship and pride of ownership. On this day, there was no spirited debate about consumerism or big-picture issues like the impact of roads and the petro industry. Like slipping into a warm bath, I sank into the old values of a shared appreciation for beautifully restored leather interiors, hand-formed metalwork, and creative innovation.

It was good to be there, Diet A&W root beer in hand. 

I was happy.

A blessing for the week

May the Christ who was known in a carpenter’s shop

bless the work of faithful hands.

May the Spirit who breathes through memory

awaken gratitude for those who formed us.

May every unexpected stopping place

become holy ground,

every shared story a gift,

every road a path toward home.

And when the scent of oil, leather, wood, or earth

carries you back to the people who first loved you,

may you discover that grace has been waiting there all along.

Amen.

Note: *Chat GPT assisted in the development of this blessing.

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