When God Shows Up in Greasy Coveralls: A Pickup Truck Miracle

I drive a 2019 GMC Sierra 1500 Denali. She’s red. Fancy. Bougie like natty in the styrofoam, if you will. I bought her brand new with eight miles on the odometer and dreams of off-roading adventures and hauling toys up the Poudre Canyon. Truth is, she’s more Pavement Princess than backwoods beast, but she’s mine. She’s been babied. Maintained like a firstborn child. 169,000 mostly gentle miles later (Weld County is a BIG county), and I still love that truck – maybe too much.

Last week, I took her in for some routine TLC: filters, fluids, belt, tranny service, fetzer valve repair, blinker fluid…you know, the usual $1,600 “hey, cars are expensive now” kind of maintenance. For the first time ever, I even had new spark plugs installed. I drove away feeling like a responsible adult – until I noticed a tiny hitch in her get-along. Just a whisper of a stutter. So I took her back in. They found a misfiring #5 cylinder, slapped on a new spark plug wire, and boom – smooth as butter.

Saturday night: truck fixed, Manhattan poured, cigar lit, and I’m solving all the world’s problems on the porch with my wife.

Then came Sunday morning. Oh, Sunday.

We climb into the truck to go to church, and she’s having a full Pentecostal breakdown – shaking, sputtering, throwing codes like a toddler with Legos. “ESC Service,” “Check Engine,” “Traction Control Off” – the dashboard lit up like Times Square. Julie, my sweet, practical wife, says, “Wanna take the Honda?” and I say, “Absolutely not. She just needs to warm up.”

(Spoiler: She did not just need to warm up.)

But by God – and I mean that literally – we made it to church. She downshifted with a “clonk” as we pulled in, and I half expected steam to shoot out from under the hood and a bumper to fall off like in a Looney Tunes cartoon. But no. She got us there. Limping, tired, but she got us there.

I walked into church heavy. Financially strapped, emotionally drained, mechanically betrayed. Pastor Ty gets up and hits me right between the eyes: “Whatever you’re going through, bring it to Jesus.” Then he lists all the things people are facing, and I’m nodding like he’s got my phone tapped. When the devil’s fighting hard, it’s ‘cause breakthrough is near, right?

Then he starts talking about the armor of God. And there I am, grown man, crying in my seat and praying the blood of Jesus over a pickup truck. Out loud. “Jesus, heal her. Be the mechanic. Fix my busted red Denali.”

I mean, I’ve prayed over people. Over kids. Over my wife. But my truck? That’s a new one.

Britton delivers the guest message – all about how we need each other – and I’m weeping like someone just cued the Sarah McLachlan animal shelter commercial. I’ve known Jesus most of my life. Flawed? You bet I am. But never doubted He’s Lord. Miracles though? That’s for other people. For missionaries and folks with better faith resumes. Not me. Not trucks.

Still, I walked out of church half-expecting to see Jesus in greasy coveralls, wiping His hands on a rag and handing me the keys. “All yours, pal. She’s purring like a kitten.” But no such luck.

I start her up – she sputters like a dying lawnmower. Limped a few more miles and left her at the shop. “I’ll call you when I know more,” my guy says. Not ominous at all.

But then a few hours later, I get a voicemail: “She’s ready.”

I’m sorry – what?! Now?!
Not a bill. Not a “you need a new engine” speech. Just: “She’s fixed.”

Turns out, that new wire they’d installed? It came loose. Another one failed, too. So six cylinders were doing the job of eight. The truck went into “limp mode,” which, honestly, I get. That’s been my setting for weeks now. They replaced all the wires, got her humming again, and then said the four most shocking words I’ve heard all year:
“You don’t owe anything.”

I nearly cried. Again.

A miracle. For me. No, it wasn’t a burning bush. Not as dramatic as the parting of the Red Sea. No audible voice from Heaven. No angel with a wrench. But Jesus showed up in the form of a guy named Doug at Firestone.

Because sometimes miracles don’t look like fireworks.
Sometimes they look like spark plug wires.
Sometimes they sound like “We’ve got this.”

I’m not great at accepting gifts. But I’m trying to learn. Because this wasn’t just about a truck. It was about trust. About knowing God sees me – even in the small stuff. Even under the hood.

Faithfulness in the Limp Mode

When we’re stuck in our own “limp mode” – barely firing on six out of eight cylinders – it’s easy to believe we’re alone. That miracles are reserved for someone more faithful, more spiritual, more worthy. But faith isn’t about flawless performance. It’s about dragging your busted self to church, shaking and sputtering, and trusting that God meets you in the parking lot.

Here’s the thing:
God doesn’t promise every battle will be easy. But He does promise to be with us in it. Some encouragement from His word:

“Let us hold tightly without wavering to the hope we affirm, for God can be trusted to keep his promise.” Hebrews 10:23

“Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you.” 1 Peter 5:7

“And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19

You don’t have to see the miracle before you trust in the Miracle Worker.

Whether it’s a Red Sea or a red pickup – He’s got this.

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P.S. The full message from Britton is below. Take the 1 hour and 17 minutes. You won’t regret it. It might just fix something under your hood, too.