Christmas morning in Las Cruses,                                                                                 2010, the recently retired                                                                                           preacher left the motel

room to walk the Chocolate
Lab and saw a beat-up pickup
with the hood up in the park-

ing lot of McDonalds. The cab
was jam-packed and a chubby,
little girl emerged with her little

dog from lots of stuff in the front
seat. Her dad was looking under
the hood at other stuff. The preach-

er asked if they were okay and
the dad said he just needed such
and such so they could get back

on the road. They were coming
from Phoenix and on their way
to Florida to live with his mother.

He had lost his job and their home
and his wife. The preacher said
it was Christmas day and no auto

supply stores would be open to
find such and such stuff for
under the hood. The dad said

he thought he could jerry-rig the
engine and the preacher, after talk-
ing with his wife, paid for a night

at the motel for the dad, his daugh-
ter and the dog. They said good-
bye and when the preacher, his

wife and Chocolate Lab were
about four hours or so down the
road toward Arizona, he called

the motel. The dad and his daught-
er had used the room, took showers,
had a short nap and had headed

out for Florida with their jerry-
rigged, beat-up pickup. The preach-
er and his wife felt really good that,

at least, there had been room for
the dad, his daughter and their little
dog at the inn that Christmas day.