Photograph by Thomas Park via Unsplash

“Why does the car smell like feet?” I say, entering the house.

“Are the children in the car?” Lauren says back. She answers my question the way Jesus answered the Pharisees with another question.

She’s in the kitchen squirting ketchup on plates. Our children love ketchup. It’s part of the food pyramid they’ve created for themselves, along with butter noodles and dinosaur-shaped processed chicken.

“What? No. No, I don’t think so. Are they supposed to be?” I can’t help but stare at the industrial-sized condiment bottle she’s holding. They come in four packs, and I wonder if I’ll ever have to buy ketchup again before I die.

“So, a foot smell with no feet?” she says. “Did you check for shoes?”

Tiny shoes are the bane of my existence, along with never-ending piles of laundry and petrified chunks of half-eaten string cheese scattered around the living room sofa. Sometimes, I step on the cheese and, after identifying it, vomit a little in my mouth, adding another layer to the disgustingness of our house.

“How many pairs of shoes do they have?” I ask. “Are we taking multiple ones with us?”

“Shoes or children?” she asks.

“Shoes,” I say.

“They’ll need their sandals. Don’t pack the fur-lined ones,” she says. “Those make their feet sweat.”

“Someone already did,” I say.

I walk back to the garage and make a mental note to pick up an industrial pack of Febreze air fresheners.

We’re preparing for a family trip and all the joys and trauma that come along with such an undertaking. So, with a trash bag in hand, I commence to clean out the car while inhaling toxic foot fumes in hopes of utilizing every inch of mid-sized SUV space.

This includes collecting and discarding an assortment of dated items. Broken crayons. A Gabby Cat thermos I thought we lost a year ago. Several used and greasy chicken nugget containers.

I discover a treasure trove of gag-inducing trash shoved under front seats, between cushions, and crammed into knuckle-busting compartments that no automobile engineer should have ever signed off on.

I pop the trunk and dive into the cargo area. The spare tire, jumper cables, and luggage straps are under the false floor. There are a couple of umbrellas there, too. I pull everything out to reorganize and find further evidence that my children’s presence has no end. Somehow, they’ve squeezed a random notebook and Paw Patrol figure back here. I marvel at the magic of what tiny hands can do and where they can fit.

Then I spot what looks like a scrap of paper near a back corner; successfully pulling multiple muscles in my shoulder, I retrieve it. It’s an old business card from a contractor Lauren and I used when we lived in North Carolina.

I had accepted a call to become a senior pastor in the Northeast, and we were in the early stages of preparing to sell our home. Like many home renovations, a few modest upgrades turned into a large-scale project of several thousands of dollars.

This is how we came to know Kevin, the contractor whose name is on the business card.

Kevin was in our home daily for the better part of three weeks. He’d swing by and update us on when we’d have our kitchen and main bathroom back. My conversations with Kevin were always colorful. We discussed all sorts of topics. Weather, traffic, and the excessive mold growing behind our walls. Kevin possessed the gift of gab and always had a story to share.

Holding that card in my hand made me think of one particular conversation with him that hit me on a theological level. It stuck with me long after the remodeling was done.

We were talking about getting older and how our bodies were finding new ways to betray us. I told him about how when I found out I was going to become a parent, I wanted to shed the extra weight I’d amassed over the previous decade. I listed a few things I did to drop 70 pounds, jokingly saying a big help was switching from beer to whiskey. He mentioned he was more of a tequila drinker but would drink bourbon if it was on hand. I asked if he’d ever stopped in an up-and-coming distillery in our city. Kevin looked at me and gave a slight smile.

“Nah, man. No need. I have a feller who makes the real deal stuff up in the mountains. Straight moonshine. Why would I drink anything else when I can get my hands on that?”

I nodded. “Touché, brother,” I said.

As a minister, I’m plagued to make everything spiritual. Even the partaking of moonshine. Standing beside Kevin, I wondered if the Holy Spirit was in the swirling contents of a different kind of spirit-filled mason jar.

I came to the conclusion that he was on to something.

Kevin reminded me that day that I’m prone to consume things that are manufactured and manipulated. Packaged and plastered with fancy labels. Put together by a Don Draper-led slick marketing team. Placed on an eye-catching shelf, tempting me to settle out of comfortable convenience.

And please understand I’m not talking about Jack Daniel’s whiskey.

I’m talking about mass-marketed prosperity and nationalistic forms of Christianity that are anything but genuine. Anything but real and authentic. Anything but a radical Gospel for all.

This revelation hit me like a shot of poteen. Provocative with a kiss of throat-burning fire, fanning out to the extremities of my body and soul. Standing in my gutted kitchen that day, a warm sensation coursing through me, I knew the real thing is always better.

I finished defunkifying the car and decided to hang onto the card. I tucked it inside my wallet, unsure if I’d ever have a reason to call my old contractor again, given that we were separated now by hundreds of miles. But I’m glad to have his number handy.

Just in case I need to talk about moonshine or faith.

Just in case I need reminding why I should always try and seek out the real stuff.