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1996 General Short Story Award Winner, Second Place

I just wished Lester would understand that I didn't want to be seen in his clunker.

"Need a Lift?"

by Brenda Keller Janzen

"Go change your clothes. We'll be waiting for you in the car," Dad ordered.

"But, Dad, I'm feeling too sick to go to the meeting," I whined.

"Honey, we've been through this before," he sighed. "You're not running a fever. I won't allow you to get away with playing sick. Besides, going to this meeting might help take your mind off what's bothering you."

The subject was closed. Oh, well. I was sort of curious to find out why our pastor had called his church members to a meeting on a Tuesday night. Still, I dreaded going. I dreaded every time I had to ride in The Clunker. Although I knew our finances were in bad shape lately, I wished Dad had found a better solution than selling our nice Toyota and reviving the ancient Chevrolet.

The car was older than I was, its yellow coat of paint pitifully out of style. Every time I rode in it, I slouched. And when we passed my friends' hangouts, I ducked so none of them would recognize me.

The ride to the meeting took longer than I could have imagined. Not because The Clunker was slow, but because we got stuck behind Lester Ricks.^*

Now, Lester owned the mother of all clunkers. I think the car's original color had been beige, but it was hard to tell. The front fender looked blue, the hood a pale green, and the entire car was punctuated with blobs of pink bondo. To top it off, Lester had constructed a makeshift roof rack out of scrap metal.

Sometimes Lester pushed the car to its maximum speed of 35 miles per hour, but today he was taking it easy at 20.

I sighed, thinking of all the times he had stopped beside me as I trudged the mile home from school and said, "Hello, there. Need a lift?"

I always produced one of my excuses, such as "Thanks, but I'm walking for the exercise" or "I would, but I've got to stop by a friend's house on the way." I figured that the five or so minutes Lester might save me couldn't be worth the popularity points it would cost to be seen in his clunker.

By the time we got to the meeting in the academy auditorium, Lester had taken his usual seat in the back corner. As I glanced his way, I noticed his head, with gray hair shaven closely as always, bending down. He was launching into one of his favorite pastimes--biting his fingernails and discreetly spitting them onto the floor. I cringed and followed my dad and brother up the aisle.

Our normally cheerful pastor stood before us, his face dark and drawn. "I know you're all wondering why I called you here tonight," he began mechanically, addressing our tiny congregation. "This afternoon I received a devastating phone call. It concerns our new church, which as you know is nearly finish--" He caught himself. "--was nearly finished."

"Pastor, what's going on?" a voice pressed.

"The call I received was from the fire department. Many of you who live in town may know already that our church has burned to the ground."

Our congregation uttered a collective gasp.

"Is nothing saved?" asked a church elder incredulously.

"Nothing," our pastor said, his face still drained of all emotion.

I looked around at the many familiar faces, now sharpened with pain. Many cried. For a long while there was silence.

"What I'm now faced with telling you is even more serious," the pastor said. "Since we took out a minimal insurance policy, only a portion of our damages will be paid for. I don't have to tell you that this means our church building fund is in incredible financial distress. Each of us now needs to decide what type of financial commitments we are able to make."

As a congregation, we remained silent--partly because of our shock and partly because we expected one of the doctors, bankers, or accountants in the room to speak first.

"Yes?" the pastor questioned, motioning toward someone behind us.

In his corner of the auditorium, Lester was standing up, still biting his fingernails. I noticed he was wearing the ragged vest he often filled with ice during hot days in July. He called it his air-conditioning system. It was the only kind he had--neither his house nor his car had ever been equipped with an air conditioner.

Lester spoke. "Well, I been sitting here thinking. God's really blessed me this year--I've got this clutch of hens ready for good laying. I'll sell them. And I can sell my car. I do have other means of transportation."

I thought of the prospect of no more "Need a lift?" questions from Lester. I thought of the rusted bicycles I'd seen around back of his tattered house. Would they be his alternate means of transportation?

At that moment I began to understand Lester. I saw that while earthly things meant nothing to him, earthly people meant everything. And God came first to him. Although Lester lacked wealth, he was willing to give God everything he had.

I have to admit that the night of the church fire meeting wasn't the last time I was embarrassed to ride in our clunker. But Lester's portrayal of Jesus has glittered in my memory ever since.

I don't see Lester anymore these days. I do think about him sometimes, though, and all the times he used to ask, "Do you need a lift?"

Somehow I have a feeling that one day I'll turn around, and there in a corner of heaven, I'll see Lester. He'll walk over to me, and maybe out of habit he'll automatically ask, "Need a lift?"

I'll smile, but before I can speak, another Man behind me will answer. I can imagine Him saying, "Lester, remember all those times you gave all you had, or gave someone a ride, or just gave a smile?"

Lester will nod, and Jesus will continue, "Lester, those were the times when you gave Me a lift."