A Dream in the Night

A Dream in the Night

December 18, 2017

Shipshewana, IN

I dreamed I was climbing a mountain. The path was cleared and marked. Others were climbing with me. The last stretch to the summit was very steep, nearly straight up. There were steps cut into the mountain, and a handrail. Anyone who let go of the handrail would tip over backward, down the mountain. There was a man climbing beside me, in obviously good physical condition, a seasoned climber. The man ahead of me let go, fell back, and was caught by the man beside me.

Suddenly the handrail ended. I stopped, desperately clinging to the smooth rock, not knowing what to do. Finally, I said out loud,

“What shall I do?”

A voice replied,

“Stand up.”

I stood, and realized the railing and steps had taken me over the top, and I had been lying facedown on the ground. The voice I heard came from a woman, sitting on a rock nearby. The man who had climbed beside me was there, but I did not see the man who had fallen and been caught.

I woke, completely exhausted, as if I had made the climb in real life.

Three Days in the Trucker's Life

Three Days in the Trucker’s Life

December 13-14 2017

The Ranch Hand at Montpelier, Idaho, was our roost for the night. Turning off the truck and the bunk heater before sleep seemed a good idea. The Passenger woke in the wee hours, comfortable in position, but any movement necessitated warming a new spot on the sheets. A few hours later, after the Trucker had flipped the heater switch, she found it necessary to wake him with a request to turn off the oven. Starting the day at 16 degrees made a chilly walk to the ladies’ room. The night was still dark; it would be several hours til the eastern sky showed light. Forecast for this area was a “freezing fog” warning.

Driving west on Route 80, the sky gradually lightened and day began. With light, the work of freezing fog became visible. Every tree, bush, grass blade, fence wire, roof, was coated as if sprayed, with the most delicate of white crystals. Like snow, and yet not. Intricate designs, not one repeated. The slightest touch of a finger melted them away as if they’d never been. Fog obscured the road ahead, and the beauty of hills and valleys. But roadsides were a wondrous sight.

Hour after hour we rolled west, little variance in the amount of traffic or the temperature, which had dropped to 8 then hovered around 20 degrees. Freezing fog continued to offer us beauty throughout the day.

 Time was passed by reading aloud the autobiography of David Pawson, Not as Bad as the Truth, until the Passenger’s throat was too raw to continue. She then turned to stitchery, only to break her remaining needle of proper size. How does one break a needle on Aida cloth??

 Ever the provider, the Trucker located a WalMart at Burley, Idaho, the GPS assuring us trucks were welcome. Not until we were swinging wide to enter the lot, did a sign come into our view proclaiming an unwelcome and threat of fine for trucks. The Boot and Shoe Outlet next door held a sign proclaiming trucks would be “booted,” and charged handsomely for the privilege of the “boot.” A restaurant further down echoed similar sentiment.

 All those empty lots, but no room at the inn, as it were. Really, all needed was a needle and #318 DMC floss! Jerome, Idaho, was the next try, and yielded up a friendly WalMart. Not only was the Passenger re-supplied, but a lunch break was taken while parked in the lot. Lasagna for the Trucker, chicken and rice for the Passenger.

By afternoon, we reached the Stage Stop near Boise, Idaho. A dirt and gravel lot. A small building long on western-themed amenities and short on patrons, at the moment. It boasted restaurant, convenience store, restrooms. Showers, laundry, exercise room with four pieces of equipment, and a theater room with free popcorn were reached by a wide staircase to the second floor.

 We learned that adjoining the theater room (which was showing a movie that interested neither of us) was a small private lounge with cushy recliners. As the temperature and condition of the lot were not conducive to the brisk walk the Passenger was longing for, recliners at least offered a comfortable change in sitting position. She had already paced the convenience store and hallway enough to warrant curious looks from staff and clerks, and was not dressed for the exercise room, so this was where relaxation happened for a few hours, he with the remote, she with stitching.

Then it was on to a rest area a few miles down the road, so that the truck’s pass through the Boise truck scales would be on the current day’s record. Already a row of sleeping trucks were lined up, motors or generators purring a deep rumble against the cold, exhaust floating lazily out of their stacks like so many sleeping dragons. At the edge of dark, even though yet two hours earlier by our EST internal clocks, it was called a day. The Trucker soon joined the ranks of sleeping dragons, while his Passenger struggled with thoughts, emotions, and sleeplessness.

A cell phone chirp at 10:15pm EST heralded a terse note from the Trucker Son, regarding snow blowing past his window. You know your child has become an adult and carries matching responsibilities when the forecast for snow brings dread instead of dancing. A motherly promise to pray for his safety went unanswered; the sandman must have intervened.

The 2:00AM alarm sent the sandman scurrying from the Passenger’s eyes only 90 minutes after he had arrived. A quick trot through the 22 degree chill, then down the road to WinnCo Foods warehouse.

The Trucker stops at the guard shack, runs in his paperwork, and is assigned door 126. Stopping a few feet from the door, he again enters the cold to open trailer doors before backing to the dock. Then another run to the office with his paperwork. Now we wait.

The clock stands at 2:30AM EST. Truckers are under strict warning that engines are not to be idled, under pain of a hefty fine. At 26 degrees outdoors, the cab and bunk chill quickly. Though a perfect night to view the annual Geminid Meteor shower, it would take a walk down the road, away from warehouse and truck light pollution. The truck’s relative warmth and safety prevails. A nap would be in order, but as a call to pull out could come at any moment, said nap is not an option.

The call never comes. At 5:45am, the Trucker reaches his limit, and checks back at the office. Yes, they were done, miraculously, just now! The truck pulled forward, the doors closed, the stop at the guard shack, and we are off. Ten minutes down the road, a TA fuel stop and free hot shower, with points earned by the fuel purchase. The fuel/shower routine is as efficient as it is welcome. In 40 minutes the truck is moving on. By 7:30am, a rest area at Ontario, Oregon, still cloaked in darkness. Naptime.

On the road again at 10am. The Trucker is refreshed, the Passenger not so much. An attempt at reading aloud assures the Passenger this will not be a day for speaking. The low grade fever she is wearing would have come in handy for warmth yesterday. Freezing fog again overspreads the area, and the truck rolls west on Route 84. A noon breakfast stop happens at the cafe in North Powder, Oregon, in Oregon Trail area.

 Damp, misty weather creates mud that covers the parking lot.

Indoors, a small dining area creatively capable of seating 42 diners at once. Homemade Christmas cheer lines the walls and windowsills.

 A wood burning stove sends out welcoming rays of heat. An extremely clean, beautiful restroom, faucet already running until turned off by the Passenger. A nook holding a small gift shop, complete with first aid supplies, jewelry, scarves, gloves, books, and much more, all with a Christian theme. Back at the table, food arrives.  Portions were plentiful.

 A few stereotypical locals with vintage pickups containing dogs, stopped in for breakfast and were greeted by name. A rack of free paperbacks and magazines by the door included a farming quarterly featuring a professional rat killer complete with photo evidence.

Route 84 led us into the mountains of Oregon, still accompanied by freezing fog and its attendant loveliness. The fog thickened, until while coming down out of the mountains, the Trucker became highly uneasy about the possibility of encountering another truck in the fog and being unable to stop in time. Or being on the receiving end of an encounter by a truck coming up behind. Thankfully, at no time did roads become slick.

By 2pm, an email appeared, containing location, amount, and pickup number for the assigned backhaul. Apples, to be found in Tieton, Washington. The Trucker ponders contacting his second delivery point to inquire about moving his delivery time from Friday morning to Thursday afternoon. 

Route 84 carried us along the Columbia River, where at one point, the marvel of a dam appeared. Water bursting out of the spillway, created a mini Niagara. Workers’ vehicles were parked on the dam itself, and somewhere near were locks to raise water levels for passing barges. And the sun has appeared, our first sighting in two days.

By phone, the Trucker reaches the warehouse location where the remaining pallets on his trailer are to be deposited. They are actually quite busy tomorrow. Yes, they will take the load today. Be there by 2:30pm local time. That can happen. And the mountain pass in the Columbia River Gorge leading to the re-load point can be traveled tonight, before tomorrow’s rain potentially turns icy on the steep grades. And, while the passenger can enjoy the night view across the gorge without actually seeing how far it is to “down.”

A strong wind has kicked up, bringing concern to the Trucker’s face, and even more complete attention to the wheel and road. The Passenger hangs onto the slim comfort that given wind direction, if the empty trailer is caught and flipped by wind (a distinct possibility), it will be blown into the mountainside on the left, and not down the mountainside on the right.

And so, three days on the road have passed. More are to come, Lord willing and the traffic doesn’t rise.

Whithersoever Thou Goest...I'm Gonna Go

Whither Thou Goest...I’m Gonna Go

December 12, 2017

A rather uneventful Tuesday afternoon. 59 degrees in the sun, up from 16 at break of day. The Trucker is steering his green Kenworth across Nebraska on Route 80 West. His Passenger is steering her silver needle across a white piece of 14 count Aida cloth. Lively instrumental music dances from the CD player. The road is flat and straight, and empty. Laura Ingalls Wilder said that Nebraska is like Lydia Locket’s pocket. “Nothing in it, nothing on it, only the lining round it.” At this moment the Passenger would tend to agree.

Suddenly the Trucker reaches for the unsuspecting GPS unit, and with a determined yank, separates it from its base. Then a knife appears from his pocket, and is employed. This seems serious. Glancing up from her violet-threaded design, His Passenger inquires, “Is there something I can do for you?” The reply is an old family joke, “I can do it mineself.” OK then.

Next moment the Trucker produces a screwdriver from the region behind his seat, and commences whacking the GPS base with hefty swats of the screwdriver’s handle. At his Passenger’s inquiring look, he explains, “I don’t like the way it is sitting.” Hmmmm….does he like the way she is sitting? Do we even go there?

Now the head of the screwdriver is changed, and suddenly the base is in pieces on the console. By now the Passenger is sufficiently concerned enough to comment, “You do realize, that whithersoever thou goest, I’m gonna go as well?” He does realize. And in a few minutes, all screws are cranked back into proper place, the screen is reattached at a new angle, and all tools reassigned to their proper locations.

At no time did the green Kenworth sway, swerve, or in any way swing out from its path between the lines. At no time did the Trucker have both eyes off the road or both hands off the wheel. At no time did he lose awareness of the traffic around us. (What traffic, anyway?) I give up. I can’t even drive my needle with that kind of accuracy. And I will still go whithersoever he goest, ripping stitches along the way.

Remember in the Dark, What Was Visible in the Light

Remember in the Dark, What was Visible in the Light

December 12, 2017

A relatively quiet night, rolling west on I-80, 50 miles east of Council Bluffs, Iowa. Wind buffets the truck, dropping fuel mileage enough to add an unplanned stop. “Just a splash of fuel,” the Trucker said, “To tide us over to Lincoln.” The truck sways, fighting the pressure. Temperature stands at 28 degrees, down 4 in the last few minutes. Engine noise competes with the rushing of wind.

But the most significant sense is darkness. Black dark. Tonight it seems more than just the absence of light, but a presence. Were it not for the occasional white headlights of eastbound trucks, and red lights of those westward, the only lights would be our own. Such a lonely feeling. An all-by-myself-in-the-world sensation. Dark makes one vulnerable. The inability to see one’s path, or what may be nearby, can be crippling. Dark is a negative thing. Associated with fear and loss and insecurity.

Yet ahead, a curved row of red lights glow in the sky, slowly blinking. Not moving. We know they mark the rotating wind turbines spread out over the prairies. Faithfully turning to provide power. Regulated, so that even in a night of wintry blasts they are held from spinning out of control and causing great damage. Incredible power, these turbines. The secret of their power is the controlled setting in which they operate, no matter the pressure exerted by their surroundings. I do not need to see the windmills to know they are there. I just need to remember in the dark, what was visible in the light.

I think of the chariots and horses of fire that surrounded the city of Dothan, protection sent for the man of God, Elisha. Things looked dark for him, a hunted man. Yet that darkness was what brought the vision of fiery warriors. Darkness enabled me to see the flashing lights on the windmills, lights unnoticed in daylight.

Darkness has become a familiar enemy, representing confusion, loss, grief, pain. Pain so heavy, it is unable to be contained in the emotions, but overspreads to the physical. One by one, the lights of hope have been snuffed out, til few are left. I pray for God to open our eyes, that we may see the chariots and horses of fire, but that has not yet happened. For now, we struggle to remember in the dark, what was visible in the light.

I think of the turbines. Even though they are wind driven, they do not take advantage of the wildness of this night. Despite their potential, they continue the steady pace set for them. A pace appropriate for the needs they supply. Designed to rotate at 14.4rpm, the blade tips then are moving at 200mph. Turbines will ride out tornado force winds with no damage, no spinning out of control. But a malfunction in their machinery or settings, and they literally destroy themselves, and anything in the vicinity. When reaching 18rpm, they will do just that, as happened in Huron, Michigan in February, 2016. “It was there, we just didn’t see it,” according to the wind farm manager. One of three seals failed, putting added stress on the others. And 1.5 million dollars’ worth of equipment crashed to the ground, self destructed.

God has set a pace and a parameter in which I am to serve Him. Guidelines, for my protection. The difference between me and the wind turbines, though, is that I have a choice. I can choose to take on the pressure exerted by my surroundings, go my own way. He allows that. But eventually I will self destruct, taking others with me. Or, I can choose to operate under His control, trusting Him to set the pace of my rotations and the sphere of my influence. This choice provides protection for me, and all within my reach.

Topping a slight rise on the prairie, we see the lights of Omaha spread out ahead, sprinkling the darkness with perspective, guiding travelers toward their destinations. The truck rolls on through the black night, while we remember in the dark, what was visible in the light.

The Dakota Prairies

The Dakota Prairies

October 25, 2017

Route 2 in Minnesota. It’s getting on toward lunchtime, according to our internal clocks. The Trucker consults our GPS. The next small town has several options: The Pita Pit, The Toasted Frog, or the Drunken Noodle. I kid you not. Now for one whose eyes eat before her stomach, that is an appetite suppressant right there. Hardee’s in the following small town seemed a safer option. We weren’t feeling adventurous today.

Route 2 in North Dakota. The road is mostly flat and straight. The view in every direction is a seemingly endless expanse of dried yellow and brown grasses, waving in the wind. Marching rigidly along the roadside, a single line of poles with outstretched arms supports four power lines. Between the power lines and the road, a Burlington Northwest Railroad track. Sometimes one track, sometimes several. Goofs up my equilibrium a bit to see the moving coal train in my peripheral vision, moving the same direction, yet more slowly.

 In this country of seemingly nothing, it also gives my brain a twist to see a dirt lane branch off to the right, apparently heading nowhere, but sporting an official street sign announcing, “8^th Avenue, NW.”

Ohhh, I could get used to this! Traveling on four wheels instead of 18, an automatic shift instead of a 13 gear manual, makes it legal and possible for me to take the wheel. The Passenger has become the “trucker” and the Trucker is the Passenger. Not quite relaxed, but he is working on it. Maybe he should take up my neglected stitchery?

A flicker of the GPS attracts my attention. Curve warning. Really? If there were “curve warnings” in Lancaster County, there would be no time to communicate anything else! But yes, I see why it happens here. The speed limit is 70. Which for most, means at least ten miles higher. In these surroundings, we seem to be creeping. A few minutes’ inattention to my right foot, and suddenly the needle is inching past 90. Oops. Hmmm….wonder if I could hit 100 before the Trucker noticed?? Better not. If I want to keep on having fun, I’d better not have too much fun.

I have not bothered to adjust the mirrors since switching seats with the Trucker. He will be back in a few hours anyway. The worst part of driving like this is the inability to change positions. Used to being on the move all day long, my joints and muscles are in a state of shock. So, a shift now and then to use the mirrors sets up a compromise with said joints and muscles. It works like this:

- left rear view mirror – sit up a bit straighter, and lean left.

- rear window – sit up straight, look over my right shoulder, past the Trucker’s shirts hanging empty behind me.

- right rear view mirror – lean right, tilt my head, and look past the shirt with the Trucker inside it.

- center rear view mirror – that one I changed. No compromise there.

High overhead, geese wing south in formation. In the roadside marshy areas, little brown ducks paddle in circles. In cultivated areas, mammoth pieces of equipment rest fieldside, or trundle slowly along, partly on the shoulder, partly in the right lane. Some fields are plowed, the upturned soil in black contrast with neighboring browned hay fields, dotted with greenish oversized round bales, left where they dropped months ago.

 Still other fields show golden brown wheat stubble. The air smells of fall bonfires, as periodic pillars of gray smoke boil up from the wheat fields. Writhing under the smoke are orange-red flames, reaching to impressive heights and pushing the smoke above themselves. Controlled burning. I wonder why? What would cause burning to be important enough, now, to risk a wildfire in this dry area?  Weed control, I later learned.  The photo below is very similar to what we saw.

Excepting the fires, the whole region appears to be settled, waiting. The season is about to change. Howling winds and silent snows are on the horizon.

On the outskirts of Minot, North Dakota, a welcome sign. Minot, the Magical City. What makes it magical? Something to research later.

Further in, a concentration of reds and blues have me moving to the right lane. An army convoy of four trucks, red and blue lights flashing through their grills, escorted by eight police cars, lights also flashing and sirens screaming, racing east out of town. Above the convoy, an open sided army helicopter flying fast, soldiers leaning outward, gripping rifles. The chopper’s landing gear skims just above the power lines. High overhead, another camouflaged chopper circles. What would require this? Something I probably cannot research. We see signs at the next exit for the nearby Bismarck Army Base, most likely the source of the convoy.

As the gas gauge is on E, a stop in Minot is in order. In town, I am driving by guesswork, as the GPS screen with the little green car on a blue road is missing from the dash. It is in the Trucker’s hand, and as he flips through the screens, I hear his end of a somewhat exasperated conversation with this bit of technology. He is making up our next destination as we go along, keeping me a bit off balance and needing to prompt him for the next lane change and turn.

 We exit the street at the Shell station, behind a white pickup, barely moving. “C’mon, keep trying, you can do it!” the Trucker implores the hesitating vehicle. I note the elderly driver, obviously taking instructions from his equally elderly wife in the passenger seat. I know how the poor guy feels! :)

Parking at a pump, I slowly ease out of the driver’s seat and down to the parking lot. Times like this I feel the location in my body of every area that was injured/rearranged through the years. Oooooh. Next door to the convenience store is an “XL Wine and Spirits” shop. I tell the Trucker that I will take my spirit into the (Shell) store and walk off the whine. Immersed in gas prices and a balky hose, he doesn’t get it. No matter.

Pacing the store aisles to get the kinks out is usually safer than pacing the parking lot. Apples are $1.69 each, wow. We aren’t THAT far from Washington State! And I brought my own, much larger and sweeter, compliments of the brother-in-law’s tree. Little chicken pies are also $1.69 each, can be opened and microwaved right there in the store and – viola! We have supper! My taste buds are intrigued, but the Trucker doesn’t think so.

 We settle for a pretzel. Two, one liter waters are $3.00. One, one liter is $.99. Hmmm. We get two...and watch at the checkout. Yup, we are charged $1.98 for the two. Nice.

Back on the road again. I shift luggage in the rear seat to unearth my laptop. Ooof. I thought we packed light. Where in the world will we put six feet of Dear Son #2 on the way home?

All That Is In Me

All That Is In Me, All That I Am

October 24, 2017

West on Route 2, on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A dreary, rainy day. The two lane road, sometimes, widening to four, arches around Lake Michigan. Trees line both sides of the road, sometimes thinning on our right so that the vast lake is visible, white capped waves crashing ashore. A wall of wind pushes from the west, causing the truck to sway.

We stopped at a hamburger joint in Manistique for a late lunch. Clyde’s was a small place, in business since 1949, and not a whole lot has changed.

 There was no provision for opening the windows, but I noted old fashioned transoms atop the doors. Likewise, no evident source of heat, save a small EdenPure in one corner. For such a small place, maybe the heat from the grill was sufficient?

 The staff was sweat shirted and casual. The curved counter allowed for six stools. A tiny table in the front corner added two more seats. Perched on stools at the counter, surrounded by locals who welcomed us, but did not include us in conversation, we absorbed the atmosphere.

The topic of the day seemed to be that internet service was down, which took phone service down with it. Hamburgers were hand shaped and generous, fries were real potatoes, freshly cut and fried. Soups, while not on our order, looked just right for a rainy, 40 degree day in October.

Back in the parking lot, the Trucker handed me the keys. Yay! Generally driving isn’t a privilege I would compete for, but here? Sure! Occasional cars, the odd pickup with fenders flapping, log trucks stacked precariously high, their loads leaning in the curves of the road. Those I passed carefully, tempted to think that only my desperate prayer kept them from toppling onto our four wheels. The spray from the big trucks, combined with rain, was my incentive to pass. Out in front, the view is much clearer. Here, 75 mph into the wind seems like we are creeping.

Our noses detect the local paper mill, before we see the road where all the log trucks turn off. The Trucker reminisces about the load he picked up there a few years ago, when the lady in charge made things impossibly difficult for him, just because she could, and bound by the union, her supervisor could do nothing to help. Memories.

Farther on, snowflakes mix with the rain, splatting frosty designs onto the windshield just before melting to liquid.

As I drive, music from the 1980’s group Harvest, fills the air. Their harmonies and convicting lyrics never grow old for me.

Back in our only-two-car-seat days, I kept their cassettes in our little Saturn, and played them while running errands. (Now, I wonder why it never occurred to me to play children’s music, or stories??) If I forgot to start the tape, a swift kick into the back of my seat was felt, and a two year old voice was heard requesting, “Mommie, make it thump!” This little person loved not only the music, but especially when Mommie turned up the bass for fun.

Today, those memories came flooding back. A simpler time in our family, when we didn’t know how good we had it, or how happy we were. Tears pushed at my eyes, my throat tightened, and my heart twisted, even as my hands steadied the wheel.

It's not often I feel like lifting my hands in worship

It's not often I feel like singing a song of joy
But I'm often reminded of His ways, how He is so faithful
So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise

In the last few years I have come to realize that praising God really is a sacrifice. Because lifting our eyes above our own circumstances, and focusing them on Him, takes effort. The action does not come naturally. We want praise to be upbeat, happy, an emotional experience that makes us feel good. But I don’t feel "good."  Happiness is elusive. And while I’ve got emotions leaking out everywhere, they are not what I care to share with the general public. I want to give God the good stuff, not this mess. I don’t feel worthy, I don’t WANT to do this.

All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

But God wants all of us, all that is inside us, the stuff that defines who we are, in our eyes.

It's not often enough my heart and spirit are broken
It's not often enough that he finds me on my knees
But so often He comes in His cleansing love and forgives me

Not often enough? Really? I am tired of being broken. Tired of weeping. Tired of asking, when the answer doesn’t seem to come. And my knees hurt. I alternate between mentally pounding my fists on His chest and demanding “Whywhy,” to crumpling at His feet in a sodden mass of helpless tears.

So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise
All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

It's not often enough I've seen through what He's given
It's not often enough I'm seeking in His Word
But so often I stand amazed that I'm one He's chosen

He chose me. HE chose me. He CHOSE me. He chose ME. This is a good thing? This is a gift? HE CHOSE ME. I don’t want to be chosen for this. I want left alone. No more pain. No more crushing grief. A clear mind, the ability to concentrate and function normally again. A return of my health, my family.

So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise

It is a sacrifice. Because I don’t want to give it. Not this way. I am unworthy, a colossal failure cut open, splattered for all to see. Like a child cupping protective hands over a skinned knee, choosing the known pain over the unknown sting of healing salve, I resist. But He holds out his arms, to receive the mess that is me.

All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

It is really about Him, not me. The mess that is me, glorifies the Lamb? Why would He stain His white robes with me? But I raise my arms, and place my fears, failures, and fractured, bleeding heart, in His. Because this too is worship. This glorifies the Lamb. He died for this. He can ease the pain, mend the broken, restore what the locust has eaten. He only asks that I trust Him with all that I am, trust Him to guide me through the sting of healing. It is about Who He is, and What He has done. Not about me at all.

Matronly Merriment Muffled

Matronly Merriment Muffled

September 16, 2017

The last rest stop on I-94 in North Dakota. A quick one, as we had miles to go before dark, as it were. I entered the unoccupied ladies’ room, choosing a stall near the end of the line. Shortly someone else entered, footsteps stopping a few doors up from mine. Moments later, another set of footsteps, carrying a voice with them that could be heard speaking, though words were not discernible. Another stall door opened and closed. Then an audible conversation began, apparently unaware of my presence.

STALL ONE: Whatcha sayin’ out there?

STALL TWO: Oh, you heard that.

STALL ONE: Well, who ya talkin’ to? Yourself?

STALL TWO: Nope. I ain’t that desperate.

Intrigued, I listened unashamedly. Humorist Jeannie Robertson says if you listen, you will find humor in the most unexpected places. Well, I was listening, and this was unexpected.

ONE: Who, then? No one else here!

Little did she know.

TWO: I was talkin’ to my bladder.

ONE: Whatsa’ matter, ain’t it cooperating today?

TWO: Well...it’s movin’ slow, and I’m movin’ slower.

Hmmm.

ONE: And you think talking to it will help?

TWO: Most days it’s all I got to talk to.

Now I was in a fix. I had a desperate need to get outside to release the screams of laughter jammed up in my throat. But the characters in this drama had not discerned my presence, and most likely wouldn’t appreciate being acquainted with the fact at this stage.

ONE: That’s life when you get old. Good conversation is hard to come by.

OK, that’s it. I’m gone. Need to offload some humor before I can handle the next unexpected. The poor Trucker. I leave him with tears running down my cheeks, and return the same way, but for an entirely different reason. The man’s gonna get whiplash from his Passenger’s emotions.

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

September 16, 2017

I-94 West. A calm Saturday morning. The truck rolls along smoothly, guided by the Trucker’s arm draped over the wheel. The road is flat and straight, and empty. Flowing from the radio, music gently presses silence to the cab’s corners. Lost in thought, the Trucker and his Passenger sit quietly.

Outside, the landscape is barren. Amber grasses and scrubby bushes hold their ground between vast expanses of black. Power line poles are darkened, their lines dipping toward earth. Post and wire fences that parallel the highway are laid over, poles burned out, unsupported wire fallen. The flames have passed, and are gone.

And the rains have come. They always do. 

The low hanging atmosphere of ash and acrid smoke of summer has given way to a blanket of rain clouds. A continual mist hangs in the air, now light, now steady rain. Brown, rustling grasses have a golden tinge. Scrubby gray bushes show light green hope at the ends of their sharp stems.

 The gullies have standing water, and new grass poking experimental blades tentatively upward. Low areas that protect occasional trees now sport color, as the leaves are changing clothes, awaiting their release to spiral toward earth in the beauty of death after a life of purpose well lived. Occasional fields have now exploded with a riot of green, their growth competing with the calendar’s race toward winter.

The temperature stands at 38 degrees. Oh. Last trip west, two weeks ago, it showed 100. My duffle bag in the bunk, duly packed after checking long range forecasts across the country, sports t-shirts and flip flops. Never mind. Two days from now, those clothes will work. At the moment, sweats and fuzzy socks wrap me in cozily, while the truck carries us forward.

And the rains have come. They still do.

Gentle mists of tears, harsh, ripping torrents of sobs, over the blackened, empty landscape where our hopes and dreams once grew. The Trucker guides me through this as well, sheltering me in his care. I envision our Savior, His arms around us both, His hand on the Trucker’s shoulder through the storm. May these rains also grow hope at the ends of the sharp stems of accusations and assumptions.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus. You always do.

The Peterbuilt on 970

September 14, 2017

Crawling slowly up Route 970, the big green Kenworth labors under a full load, dropping back beside a Peterbilt pulling a walking floor trailer in the right lane. A gravelly voice from the Peterbilt cab grates out of the Kenworth’s CB radio.

“Thought a pretty truck like that would be way out ahead!”

The Trucker reaches for his mic.

“Not with a full load – you must be running empty!”

“Naaah, there ain’t no more room in this wagon. Weeelll, come on up in front, driver. I got all day to get up this hill, and there’s a red light at the top. Gonna be a long ride down the other side behind me.”

“OK, thank you...have a good one, driver.”

And the Peterbilt drops back, while the big green Kenworth shifts gears, growling upward, easing into the right lane, just in time for a green light and a clear ride down.

Wayside Waterworks

Wayside Waterworks

September 12, 2017

Time on the road means numerous rest stops, at a different place most every time. I wonder how many different ones I have experienced over the years. Always, there are various degrees of space, convenience, and most importantly, cleanliness. Grateful as I am for the facilities, it is always with a sense of relief that I return home to my own familiar bathroom, even if I didn’t have time to clean it before leaving.

Today’s experience could have won a prize in the dubious category of perverse plumbing. A truckstop in Ohio, which boasted a sizable, mostly empty parking lot (unusual!), large open foyer, and clean, multi-stalled restrooms. I entered, along with a trio of beautiful Indian ladies in traditional dress. The first open stall offered a wet seat, so I pivoted and entered the next, only the find the same. And in the next. After the third stall offered yet another well watered seat, I entered, and using multiple layers of tissue, thoroughly dried the seat.

The floor was also wet, which necessitated careful maneuvering. The little red radar eye on the wall behind the porcelain throne winked knowingly at me. Perching gingerly, I immediately heard the pipes under and behind me beginning to clear their throats in warning. Before I could react, a geyser of cold water fountained up. NOW I understood why each seat was wet. As I shifted position the pipes again began their ominous throat clearing. I bolted to my feet and huddled in the front corner of the stall til the deluge was over, making the back of my skirt vulnerable in the process. How to reach for the tissue to make myself dry and presentable without setting off the plumbing again? Gingerly, with a wary glare at that evil red eye on the wall.

Out at the sink, one of the lovely Indian ladies grinned at me and burst forth with a stream of chatter in her language. I did the same in mine and we understood each other perfectly. As I left the room, yet another lady entered, and I saw her begin the enter, pivot, and re-enter routine. She looked questioningly at me. I pantomimed a liquid explosion. She groaned, I gestured, we went our separate ways.

I joined the Trucker in the lobby (only once have I been able to beat him back out there – he’s a patient man). Together we exited and started across the parking lot. Seeing a story in my face, he asked to hear it (now he’s a brave man). Before I was finished, he was shouting with amusement, earning us startled looks from passing drivers crossing the lot. Oh, it was worth a wetting to hear his rich laughter roll into the afternoon air.

There has been precious little laughter in our lives recently. The harsh, barren landscape we have traveled the last year has not produced much but the steady rain of tears. And those tears, watering the soil of our lives, have not produced the growth we are praying for, as yet. Hopes are gasping for their last breath, dreams appear destined for burial, cherished loved ones remain determinedly out of reach.

It almost seems wrong to laugh, when our hearts feel like they are damaged beyond repair. And most often, laughter, like any other emotion, still ends in the now familiar expression of grief. But for one brief moment laughter bubbled to the surface. Maybe one day it will be restored, along with the other parts of our lives that are now most too painful to touch. But if not, we know Who holds the future, and we cling to His hand through the storm and rain.

Hide and Seek Beans

Hide and Seek Beans

August 28, 2017

Back home again, and playing catchup. The the Trucker’s turn to have some down time, and my turn to get busy.

After twenty years, this is the second year I am not part of the back to school crowd with my children. I have now become a consolation prize for the three year old Niece, who feels very much left behind and neglected since her siblings all jump the school bus and leave town each weekday.

This morning we were picking green beans. I showed her how to find where they hid (that word is important for later) under the leaves, and how to choose which were ready to leave the stalk. For her baby hands, it was more like search-and-destroy, but little hands need to learn sometime, and when better than when the project is still fun?

As we progressed down the row, she began selecting and pulling beans independently. At the end of the first row, I noted our bucket was not nearly as full as it should have been. Nor was there a small person at my elbow any longer. Glancing across the garden, I spotted her hunkered down by a lima bean bush. Then my ears heard her little voice say, “I’se gonna tuck you in nice and tight, and nobody’s gonna find you, ever!” OK then.

When the beans were harvested, and the pint sized helper had run off to other pursuits, I went back to check on whoever was “tucked in tight.” I found string beans by the handful, carefully wrapped in large green bean leaves as though they were baby dolls, tucked randomly under lima bean bushes. Oh Julie. So, first I picked the beans, then found them all over again. Well traveled beans, they are.

The Trucker looked up from his mileage reports when I re-entered the kitchen. I told him of the bean hide-and-seek party. Between chuckles he made a comment about sharing my imagination with sister’s children. Well, I may have an imagination of my own, but the Niece found hers all by herself!

Fire in the Hills

Fire In the Hills

August 23, 2017

Swinging through the high hills east of Yakima, Washington, on Route 24. Land covered by yellowed dry grass and the infrequent scrubby bushes, the area shuts down until fall rains come. Winter snow melt and spring rains cause the hills to green and explode into blooming color. Then the summer sun sucks out all moisture on those same hills; they wait, parched and silent, for the rains to return.

In low areas and crevasses streams run, chattering over rocks, splashing around bends. Where water is abundant, vegetation grows tall and colorful, waving in the breeze. Varying shades of green: small trees, rushes topped with brown heads, all manner of grasses and weeds.

Further east, the hills are black and bare. Fire has swept this area, one of many. Fire maps show dozens of active fires at present, ranging from 450 acres in size to upwards of 50,000 acres. A smoky blue-gray haze hangs over the mountains for hundreds of miles, obscuring the scenic view and crinkling the insides of noses.

The black, burned out acres are interspersed with small, untouched sections of yellow grass. Many places, the flames have come right up to the road, on both sides. At four way intersections, it appears they have come up to the corners where roads meet, and burned out, for lack of fuel. The hundreds of miles of fencing along both sides of the road – now I understand why it is comprised of metal poles with barbed wire. The fencing here remains unscathed.

I think about the contrast between the areas where moisture is consistently plentiful, and where it is not. A landscape filled with golden brown, dried grasses is pretty, when contrasted with the green grass below. Yet, it hasn’t much to offer, alone. Its life has retreated to the underground roots, out of sight. Areas of moisture have color, gentle sound, coolness, restfulness. They draw one toward themselves.

The hills and the lowlands have the same potential. Consistent moisture is the key.

When the gentle, soaking rains come, the hills and the valleys respond together to create astounding beauty, and a haven for creatures that live here. But when the rains stop, there is no provision to continue nourishing the hills. Dry, empty stalks are left to rustle in the wind. When the fire comes, it rushes unchecked, feeding on dried grasses. Flames stop their destruction only when coming to an end of their fuel, or meeting a well watered valley.

Our lives mirror the hills and valleys. I am wondering, do I take advantage of the Creator’s provision to keep my soul well watered and fruitful, a defense against the flames of adversity? Or do I stand complacently when the rains stop, making no effort to tap into the water of life for myself, thus withering and dying, serving only to feed the flames that will come? Am I a well watered valley, attractive and restful, a refuge? Or do I simply exist, until consumed by fire, leaving useless black earth in my place?

Delivery Day, In Which I Go For an Explore

Delivery Day, In Which I Go For an Explore

August 22, 2017

In a way this adventure seems simple and child like. Yet, isn’t that the best way, to look at the world through child-like eyes? There are so many things to be experienced through the senses, things to be learned, understood. I remember the delight of watching our little ones experience new things, their eyes lighting up with the thrill of discovery. The joy of talking on an adult level with the children as they grew, their worlds expanded, and they brought what they learned each day home to share around the supper table. Life was rich and full, then. I still reach for the joy of discovery when possible, alone now, but for the Trucker.

We arrive late morning for our delivery at the Port of Umatilla, Oregon. An industrial park, warehouse, port on the Columbia River, it moves freight by road, rail, and river. Entering, and stopping between the row of grain elevators on one side and dock doors on the other, the Trucker parks and takes his bills into the drivers’ entrance. The entire facility was empty and quiet. No one seems to be here this day. In minutes he returns to open the trailer doors and back up to door number two.

(The truck is way back in the center of the photo, but this shows the warehouse, grain bins, and RR track.)

Feeling restless and curious, I ask if this is an appropriate place to go for an “explore” as Christopher Robin said to Winnie the Pooh in that dearly loved children’s classic. Permission was granted; however, unlike Winnie’s response to Christopher, the Trucker declined an invitation to accompany me. It seems I need to do my “stoutness exercises” alone. He must stay with the truck and available to the receivers. Also, the Trucker does some of his best work with his feet but not necessarily on them.

My sneakers and I set out at a brisk pace. First the truck scale, to weigh loads in and out. I like this one! The pull of gravity on me makes no impression on it. The scale sloped back down to the driveway. At the slope’s end stood a very large, very black mailbox on a very tall steel post. Its door was not only open, but hanging straight down, like a sassy tongue protruding from a child’s mouth. Inside was a smooth, round stone, the size of my fist. What in the world was it doing there? Would it like to come out? I could help with that. Wonder if I could skip it across the river? Better not.

Beyond the mailbox, I step over onto the railroad tracks, which run along the lot on the far side of the scales. I trot along the tracks until a chain link fence stares me in the face. Back on the paved drive, to where the fence’s gate stands open. Through the gate, back over to the tracks, which now slope downhill toward the rail yard, as does the paved drive.

 My sneakers and I pause where the track that passes by the scale joins with the track that curves behind the warehouse. Upon closer inspection, I can see the mechanism that decides which track the train will take, and how it works. Though old looking and very rusty, I wonder if I could pull the pin, and change the direction for the next train through? Would it matter? And if I did, could I change it back? And do they even use this track anymore?

On down the slope, and the drive joins the one coming up from the port like a Y; the one from the lot above continues on to another lot, forming the Y’s tail. Mindful that this is rattlesnake area, I look closely before following the path through tall dry grasses that take off the corner to the lower drive.

This spreads out to the dock. Three hundred feet of flat. I am told it has equipment to move grain, petroleum, and shipping containers, the latter of which can even be double stacked on trains and barges. It even has a holding facility to accommodate up to one hundred refrigerated containers. Nothing doing down here today either. Machinery is parked. Along the water, a monstrous stack of logs, from very tall trees. On a previous delivery, I had watched from above while a yard truck with a claw moved logs like these from a tumbled pile, a few at a time, to a tidy stack at the edge of the water. Were these the same, plus more?

Facing the water, on my left, rows of narrow pipes, a dozen of them, ran up from the ground, curving against a square building, then penetrating its wall. Stairs ran up beside the pipes, with a disappointing sign warning “Do not enter.” My sneakers carry me down to the water, where I disturb a flock of birds who fly up, stridently expressing their annoyance at my interference.

In the center of the port, an immensely tall, white, square column rises up, again with stairs climbing alongside and around it. Attached is an arm that extends across the port and out over the water, equally white, square, and supported by another column planted on the edge of the water. My eyes follow the flight of stairs up the first column, across the top, then down (gulp) into a steel box with windows in the side and (gulp again) in the floor. My tummy climbs up my throat in sympathy for whoever makes that journey up, across, down, and in.

Extending below the box, many cables dangle. Now I see. Cargo is attached to the cables, and the operator in the box manipulates the controls needed to swing the box with its cargo attached, along the arm, out over the water, and set it on a barge, when a barge is docked to receive it. Later, I learn this is a 52 ton gantry crane and spreader, with a hook load crane attached.

Across to the land side of the port, a bank of dry grasses reaches to the parking lot above. Little trails where the tall grasses are flattened, wind up the bank. I decide it is wiser to stay on paved land. The driveway curves around and rises steeply up under my sneakers as we jog to the top. Back across the lot, panting, I hop onto the running board and swing into the Passenger’s seat. The Trucker looks up from his logbook and grins.

“Have fun?” Yep. I start at the very big, very black, very tall mailbox to tell him about my explore, but we get hung up on the mailbox. As usual, he has ready answers to my questions while I am still lining up words in the right order to ask them.

The mailbox is that tall (I stood on tiptoes to peer in) so that truckers can reach into it without getting out of their trucks. And you see how the door hangs straight down? That means it is broken. So the stone? Is there to hold papers down so they do not blow away. (Glad I didn’t liberate it from the box, then.)

 But the obvious question (to me): Rather than bothering with a stone, why would you not just fix the door? For this, the Trucker had no answer, just That Look. OK then. Some questions have no answers. Even though they seem obvious. We are well acquainted with that fact.

A dockworker appears by the truck’s open door with signed bills for the Trucker’s briefcase. We are free to go. The explore is over. For this time.