King's Corner: Restoring the Picture

It takes a village to raise a child. It might also take a village to remember who we are.

I was reminded of that while restoring an old car.

My dad, Mark King, and I were driving home down Hwy 50 from Carson City when I spotted a Ford Model A on a trailer outside Ace Mini-Storage. I stopped to admire it. Dad smiled—he always had an eye for a story. Later, he mentioned it to his close friend Tom, who knew a widow looking to sell her late husband’s unfinished restoration.

That’s how I met Sandy and first saw Bud’s 1928 Model A—partially disassembled in a storage barn. Bud had started the restoration but was forced to stop when illness overtook him, and not long after, he passed away. Sandy was ready to sell, but not to let go. It was clear this wasn’t just a car. It was something he had begun—and she hoped someone might finish.

I made an offer, even though I knew restoring it would require more skill than I had.

As it turns out, help was already on the way.

After a minor accident—someone ran into the back of us while I was stopped in traffic—Tom recommended a repair shop in Mound House. When I walked into Paul’s Auto Paint, the walls were covered with photos of cars he and his son Tom—another Tom entirely—had restored, many for Harrah’s.

I had found exactly the help I needed—someone who knew what he was doing, which was a noticeable upgrade from my qualifications.

Restoration projects have a way of unfolding like that. One step leads to another. The right people appear at the right time. What looks accidental begins to feel connected—like there may be more to it than we first realize.

There was something personal in this as well. Having owned a Model A in high school and early college, working on this car has felt like stepping back into that part of life—recapturing not just a machine, but a memory.

Over the past four years—long enough to learn patience, whether I wanted to or not—Paul, his son Tom, and others have helped rebuild every part of that Model A. It turns out that “taking something apart” and “putting it back together” are very different skill sets. Paul’s knowledge of the old, and Tom’s steady hands bringing it back to life, made a combination I quickly learned to trust.

And Sandy has been part of it all along.

She has followed the progress closely. Each step forward has mattered—not just because the car is coming back to life, but because, in some small way, Bud’s vision is too. Sometimes what one person begins, others are invited to continue—often in ways no one could have planned.

Old things invite that kind of reflection. It’s not the objects themselves that draw us in. It’s the stories—stories that help us imagine who we might have been, and who we might still become.

My dad once served as an Honorary Marshal in Virginia City, dressed in full western attire, complete with pocket watch and twin six-shooters. I remember him kneeling to talk with a young boy who stared at him in awe, caught between fascination and tears. That was Dad’s gift—he didn’t just remember the past, he made it feel alive.

And sometimes, those stories come back in unexpected ways.

Just down the end of C Street is the Presbyterian Church, where Paul has served for decades as an elder. In his home, he has a photograph taken nearly eighty years ago: his sister, his mother, and his grandmother sitting in an old car, smiling out through the windows. A car identical to the one we were restoring.

That’s where the photo you see comes from.

Standing there, it struck me we’re all living between two pictures—the one that came before us, and the one we’re still becoming.

Using A.I., we combined that old family photograph with the restored car. Now, in a single image, Paul stands beside the car in the present… while inside sit his sister, his mother, and his grandmother from nearly eighty years ago.

Past and present, brought together.

It’s more than a clever image. It’s a reminder.

Do you have people like that in your life—those who remember when you were young? Who help you see your future by holding onto your past?

And have you noticed how often God works through those very people?

Through those who invest in you. Who believe in you. Who, when you drift a little off course, help restore you—not all at once, but piece by piece, sometimes in ways you don’t even notice until much later.

The Model A is nearly finished now.

But what stays with me most isn’t the car.

It’s the picture.

A craftsman standing in the present, beside something rebuilt with care… and a family from the past, still riding with him.

Will you let God do that in your life?

Will you let Him take what has been—your memories, your people, your story—and bring it forward to shape who you are becoming?

Because with Him, nothing is ever truly lost.

Sometimes, it’s just waiting to be restored.

Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life.