When All Else Fails

Who would’ve known what a gift going to an auto repair shop would be? Automobile repair—one step toward enlightenment. I was only there to replace my windshield wipers. I was pretty sure that I could do this myself, but the guys at this place had helped me with minor things many times throughout the years. The mechanic was delightful (is delightful). He’d been there for eleven years, and I’d seen him before. What a gift he is—to the planet. It was a busy morning there. People were going in and out. The store was decorated with Christmas decorations. I stepped into the middle of a conversation. He wasn’t just talking to me when he said, “Make a decision and don’t look back.” Another man stepped forward and said, “Make the right decision and don’t look back.” But Nate’s was much more inspired. I put some tools up on the counter to purchase (they were a Christmas present; it was December 22, 2015), along with windshield wipers and mace (which doesn’t work on people who are high on cocaine—this was another gold nugget of information I received from Nate). I said, “What if it is the wrong decision?” He answered, “It don’t matter. Just do it again. You’ll get another chance, and another, until you get it right.” That would have been enough wisdom for one day, but it got better. Another man walked in, and they spoke. They were all African American men, about fifty-five to sixty years of age. It seemed everyone in the store already knew each other. The new man said, “Every day I open my eyes is a blessing. Nothing else matters after that.” This was the second time I had heard that in the last five minutes, in the same store, from two different people. When I heard it, though, I rolled my internal emotional eyes. I had been in such pain that I had been actually wishing for death—a quick, painless one but an escape nonetheless. I know that those words sound so ungrateful, but that day, it was true. The pain was too much to bear, and I was contemplating ways to end it if there was no relief. No one knew that I was feeling this way. I did believe that praying for a swift passing would make it happen. I was more afraid of the pain that I couldn’t escape than the pain of death. Lost in my thoughts, I think I spouted off answers in my brain, but I had never really talked to anyone out loud yet. Nate shook me out of my ruminations, almost as if he read my mind, saying as it was my turn at the cash register, “You woke up this morning. You have your life. You have money to spend. What more could you want?” I finally spoke. I said, “My health. I would love perfect health. I know that I look healthy, but I’m not. And I would gladly give it all away just to be well and healthy.” We walked out together at the end of the transaction, and he immediately began to talk about his family. I loved listening to him talk about his wife and kids. He was mostly talking about Christmas shopping, decorations, and food. At the end of our conversation, he said, “I don’t know what you have, honey, what is wrong with your health, but—” I don’t know what made me open up. It just came pouring out. I said, “It’s Lyme disease from a tick bite about three years ago. I thought I was going to die then, and lately, I’ve been declining again, and I have really been wondering the same thing.” Nate was quite surprised by my admission. He said, “It’s not your time. He brought you back because you have work to do, and you still have work to do.” He also said not to eat chicken because it has too many hormones. He said to eat vegetables and fruit, get a Bullet blender and start juicing, and don’t eat red meat. He also mentioned not eating dairy, sugars, or gluten. He gave me a lifetime of advice in fifteen minutes. I nearly cried. I gave him a hug, said “Merry Christmas,” and left. That night, I ended up in the ER, and I was admitted. Without this man’s words, I most certainly would have thought the absolute worst. Two mornings later, I was able to leave the hospital. I said to God, “What’s my work?” The only thought that entered my mind was write your story.