Where Love Parks Itself

The other night, my car broke down at this sketchy, overcrowded gas station—the kind of place where the flickering lights feel like they’re daring you to stick around. I was standing there, feeling more than a little uneasy, when this older guy in a beat-up truck rumbled in. He was wearing a faded, grease-stained Harley T-shirt, a cigarette was dangling from his lips, and he hadn’t shaved in what looked like weeks.

Without saying a word, he walked over, gave my car a quick once-over, and then, with a low, gravelly voice, told me exactly what was wrong. Just like that. No small talk, no introductions.

I told him I was fine and that I had Triple A on the way, but he didn’t budge. He just grunted, glanced around at the people drifting in and out of the station, and stayed. Silent but solid. His name was Henry.

Turns out, Henry had just swung by for a Subway sandwich—for himself and his dog. But somewhere between the ignition of his old truck and the flickering lights of that gas station, he saw me. And maybe, in a way, he saw something he needed too.

He told me he doesn’t get out much since his wife of 40 years passed away. His voice was steady, but his kind eyes betrayed him—glassy and distant, like he was somewhere else. But when Triple A  finally showed up, I caught a glimpse of something else in those eyes: a smile, soft but real.

I thanked him. Offered to buy his sandwich—or something—but he just shook his head. Said he was hungrier now, maybe enough for a pizza. Then he chuckled and mentioned he’d head home and start cleaning up.

And that’s when it hit me. I think Henry needed to help someone that night just as much as I needed help. Sometimes, love doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t come dressed in perfection or wrapped in pretty words. Sometimes, love shows up in a beat-up truck, wearing a dirty Harley shirt, with kind eyes and a silent promise that you’re not alone.

Thank you, Henry!. You were the gift I didn’t know I needed. That’s., Love Out Of The Blue!