To the editor:

Picture a young pastor dressed in a black robe, standing on the side of the road begging for a lift. That would be me three decades ago. I was on my way to the cemetery to lead a graveside service for a longtime member of the church I served when my car died. The red “failure” light on the dashboard seemed to be pointed less at the car engine and more at me.

I could see the mourners now, gathered around the casket, in their black dresses and suits, each holding one last gift: a rose. They’d be wondering, “where’s the Reverend?” Sitting there in a car that wouldn’t move, flashbacks swam into view, all my mistakes and mishaps, like the time I overturned my canoe in an ice-encrusted river.

Today, I know that I am no more safe from my foibles than I ever was. Perfection is off the table. Instead, I am learning to laugh at myself, to let it go. I see that when I embrace my own humanness, I can embrace the same in others. It dawns on me too that when I laugh at myself, I make space for others to join in.

Who saved me on that day my car died? The police. A squad car delivered me to the cemetery — on time. As I reached for the door handle, I turned towards the officer and said, “Thank you. thank you!” We laughed. It was as if we both knew: Someday this will make for a great story.

Peter Luckey,

Lawrence