I worked in a filling station for four years. One day I hurt my back working under the grease rack, and for a while my father, a rural pastor, regularly drove me 12 miles from our small town to another small town to see a chiropractor. Dr. Holt was an old-time jerk-and-twist chiropractor and a Missouri Synod Lutheran laymanâ€”what else could he have been in a Missouri town called Concordia? He usually charged $3 for an adjustment, but after every appointment my dad would say to him, â€śWell, Doc, what do I owe you?â€ť and every time Dr. Holt would answer, â€śJust a dollar, Reverend.â€ť My dad wanted to be fair, but he was poorly paid himself. So the two of themâ€”the Missouri Synod Lutheran layman and the Evangelical and Reformed pastorâ€”always did this delicate dance of payment.