Twin Angels

It was a big job, the kind I loved.

There aren’t many people who know how to tear down and rebuild the engine on a Peterbilt logging truck. I’d built my mechanic business from scratch and was proud of what I’d accomplished. Across central Wisconsin I was the guy to call for heavy machinery repairs.

On this particular November day I was finishing up work on an engine at the truck owner’s garage. I’d spent most of the last three days removing the head gasket and cylinder head, carefully disassembling clamps, cables and other engine parts. It took a lot of horses to power this big boy. The front wheels and axle alone carried over 11,000 pounds.

Now, in the home stretch of a 12-hour day, my mind kept returning to a discussion my wife, Lori, and I had two nights ago about our faith.

I wasn’t sure where she was coming from. God had already changed me so much, helped me overcome problems with drugs and alcohol. And he had given me this talent to fix engines and a successful business. Yet Lori believed I could deepen my faith still more, meeting God in my life in ways I had yet to understand.

I filled the engine with oil and coolant then started it to make sure everything was in running order. Almost done. I was putting away my tools when the truck driver and part-time mechanic asked if I’d look at an oil leak unrelated to my work. “Sure,” I said.

The passenger-side wheel was removed and the jack was still in place. I slid under the truck feet first on a creeper. Peering into the underside of the rumbling engine, I wiped away oil with a rag, trying to find the leak. As I looked up, I saw some movement in my peripheral vision, turning my head just in time to see the jack shoot out from under the front axle like a rocket.

Before I could react, the axle slammed across my midsection, crushing me to the floor. I screamed in agony till I was gasping for air, my lungs burning. Then a final involuntary cry from deep inside me: “God, help me!”

My arms strained against the axle. It didn’t budge. My arms collapsed, the pain too intense. Sweat soaked my face and hair. The engine rumbled, each vibration grinding the axle down on me. I heard the other mechanic calling 911. “Hurry! He’s smashed under the truck.”

It’s too late. I’m going to die. I tasted blood, felt it running down my chin. The mechanic turned off the engine. Then he began jacking up the truck again. The axle slowly raised off me, but the pain didn’t let up.

I reached back and grabbed the bottom of the front bumper with my hands to pull myself out. But I moved less than a foot before my muscles collapsed, only enough for my head to stick out from the bottom of the truck.