I didn't ask him about his truck. I should have. It was one of those trucks that catches your eye. It was a small, old Toyota with a topper. The original color -- or the base color -- was tan. But it was painted over with swirls of all kinds of colors. This wasn't a professional paint job. It was a spray paint job. The two "o's" of the Toyota on the tailgate were painted to look like eyes.
I saw him pull into the gas station and knew this was they guy. I think he was a landscaper, or a lawn guy. It looked like he had a bunch of plastic buckets, the kind that shrubs and trees come in, piled inside the bed of his truck. And he filled up a metal container with gas.
After he got back in his truck, I leaned in to his open passenger's side window and asked him my question. The man was probably in his late 50s or early 60s, with a shaved head. He was a smoker. He didn't really hesitate. "I don't see why not." So I prayed for him. He thanked me for it.
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