My small village lost a hero this week. He was a regular
guy, who could pull off a good joke. He had a car repair shop in this bedroom community of about 1,400. Although you wouldn’t get your oil changed in an hour, the
mechanic was an honest guy who wouldn’t try to upsell you unless he did notice
something that was direly needed.
When he wasn’t under the hood of someone’s vehicle, he was
in a fire truck. This week, my village lost the man who was our fire chief for
38 years.
Faith doesn’t travel much faster than in a firetruck, the
pastor said at his funeral. This guy helped people at their worst, when their
cars weren’t working or when fire took their possessions, and possibly some
lives.
His life ended after a call, while trying to get cars fixed
for folks needing them for holiday travel. He died with his boots on, they
said.
They did a final call to the chief, calling him home for a
rest he didn’t take in life. He was escorted to his final resting place by a
fire truck, and honored along the way by the community he served for more than
40 years.
Courage, honor and value were printed on a plaque laid next to his coffin, as a dedication to all firefighters. Few people wear these words in life. The longtime chief of
a volunteer fire department in a rural village lives those words, while being
just an ordinary guy.
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