Long-ago, I watched Juan fix the brakes on his ’53 Chevy. The car was on blocks. Juan knelt in the dirt. His toolbox was spare: pliers, screwdrivers, hammer, cold chisel, hacksaw … and accumulated parts from other cars. At noon we walked to the parts store to ask questions. Late in the day, on a country road, the windows rolled down, Juan let me drive. The car was mine. My first. Juan fixed the brakes the same way he practiced his faith: Start early, work straight through, ask questions and never lose heart. God rest you and keep you, Juan.