The smell of hot rubber and sweaty men assailed my senses as I pulled the door open to the sound of a tinkling bell. The oversized tractor tires were piled higher than my head. I felt like I had entered a scene from "Deliverance." I maneuvered my way through the maze to the back counter. The owner was negotiating a deal for large tractor tires. His accent was deep country redneck. "Well, William, I reckon I could knock 10 more dollers off them thare tires if youse is a gonna mount'em your own self."
I wound up in the dirty tire shop today after a stranger left a note on my car that there was a nail in my tire. When I came out of MacDonalds after lunch, there was the note. The town was small enough that the local wal-mart didn't have a tire department, but it was also a small enough town that the cashier hooked me up with a tire shop.
I had my doubts as I entered the smelly shop, but Sam, the owner, took good care of me. They emptied a bay and pulled my car right in. I guess they don't see a lot of Dallas women in the remote country shop, because all the mechanics took a long smoking break while I was sitting in the shop. They stared at me through the plate glass window like I was a foreign animal on display at the zoo. Not in an interested, attracted way - just like I was an odd novelty.
About an hour later, and $8 poorer, I left the shop and found my way back to the turnpike. After many more hours of driving, and laying hands on my little car, I finally arrived in Kansas City. Unfortunately my car is not excited about traveling through the mountains. It coughed and spluttered its way over each one.
I am registered, settled into an overstuffed chair amongst a crowd of bloggers. I am ready for an amazing night of worship with Phil Wickham. It should be incredible.