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.

E-Day 2017

E-Day 2017

August 21, 2017

The night was spent in a “no facility” lot off route 80 west of Cheyenne Wyoming. Black sky was sprinkled generously with winking stars. Rows of trucks lined up, silently sleeping in the coolness of dark. The Trucker parks parallel to the hill for a bit more quiet and privacy. Tonight I can open the vent by my pillow to admit a gentle breeze without also admitting the rumble of nearby units, and look through the upper windows at the star studded sky. A perfect setting. I’d take this over a motel room any night.

Morning was chilly. We lay listening to a train rumble past on the hill above. Then, stealing quietly out of the lot, we enter the highway. Breakfast happens on the “roll” this day. Mile after undulating mile, through what seems a lot of nothing. Arid semi-desert, burned brown by the sun and lack of rainfall. Dead grasses stand stubbornly straight out of the ground. Scrubby green-gray bushes fill the land, almost like a planted crop. Basically flat, this country appears to be lifeless, except for us. Traffic was very light. Occasional road signs with lights have solar panels attached.

Overpasses have electronic signs announcing that nearby parks, historical sites, and viewing areas are full. Alternating those announcements are warnings that stopping along the road is prohibited, as this is wildfire season, and a hot undercarriage could spark a fire.

Exiting Route 80 for Route 30, the Trucker aims for Pocatello, Idaho. He detoured this area two weeks ago because of an out-of-control, 60,000 acre wildfire, four miles from the road. So far no evidence of fire today. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, wispy white clouds hanging intermittently across the horizon. The Trucker comments, “You feel like you are on top of the word” as we begin to descend out of the high desert into somewhat greener land between ridges to the south and flat topped mesas to the north. Now, at 8:30AM, it is 69 degrees.

A trucker friend entering Portland, Oregon sends a photo of bumper-to-bumper traffic leaving the city in search of an eclipse viewing spot. Will they even progress to their destinations in time?

North on Route 30 toward Cokeville. Every few miles a tractor trailer or a camper is pulled to the side of the road, drivers out on their lawn chairs, eclipse glasses on. The sun is bright to our right. Ahead, westward, the hills are covered in wildfire haze. Fields of freshly cut hay perfume the air.

11:10AM The light is beginning to change. Like when the sun first comes back out after a thunderstorm. Brighter, yet different. Ever so gradually. Makes you feel like rubbing your eyes to see better. Dimmer, yet clear. Not like the haze of evening dusk. Light is decreasing, but not throwing shadows as at sunset. Cattle and horses are grazing calmly in their pastures. A sense of stillness in the air. The temperature has dropped six degrees in the past fifteen minutes, to 63. The truckstop in Cokeville is nearly empty. The Trucker decides to push on to Montpelier, further north and one degree closer to totality. Our route will not take us into the total eclipse band, but we will still see 96% totality at Montpelier.

11:30AM The haze deepens over the western hills ahead and to the north, as if rain is falling there but we see no clouds. The Trucker turns on his lights.

11:35AM Change of plans. At the Idaho state line, the Trucker eases onto a wide spot, and we get out.  A few other eclipse watchers are already there.

 Donning eclipse glasses, we see it! A thin yellow-orange crescent nearly covered by a black disc. We are surprised to see how far it has progressed.

 Across the road is a shack, advertising “Black Cat Fireworks – The Best There Is.” An elderly gentleman stands outside the open door, watching the heavenly display through a welder’s helmet. Hopefully he suffers no ill effects.

 Giving our eyes a break, we tune into conversation between two men parked nearby, glasses on, and realize the eclipse is already waning! Oh dear. The light IS getting brighter. Watching again, as the crescent increases, we imagine we can almost see the moon’s black disc sliding away.

11:55AM. On the road again. Very little discernible difference in the light from a normal cloudy day now, although there are no clouds. A stop in Montpelier in ten miles will allow us another look.

We now understand that the light change we were seeing at approximately 11:25AM was totality for this area. Had we pulled over at the Flying J in Cokeville, we would have seen the sun at 96% coverage, with was the most for this area. Sigh.

Last night I had pulled up an extremely detailed, interactive map online, giving all the measurements, percentages, times, and explanations. From that timetable, we understood that the eclipse here would be approximately 1.5 hours in the making, with one minute of near total darkness, then another 1.5 hours of gradually increasing light. Obviously, it happened much more quickly. I am so grateful to the Trucker for pulling off when he did, or we would have missed the entire experience!

12:10PM We are at the Ranch Hand in Montpelier, Idaho, for another look. Daylight is quite normal now. A small curved area of black is all that remains over the sun. Life is going on here as though no one ever heard of an eclipse. Over lunch we discuss it. Most likely when we noticed the light dimming was totality for us. Apparently the time frame we got from the map was for the center of the band of complete totality directly north of our location.

1:00 PM The Trucker works with his maps and logs. The full sun is now visible again. Our thermometer stands at 80 degrees. We see on facebook, photos of the eclipse as visible in Lancaster County, and are glad for the clear view we have had on the Wyoming/Idaho border.

On with the schedule!

Some thoughts:

- Our worries about traffic complications were unfounded. Instead, we enjoyed an empty road. Was it much ado about nothing? For us, the much ado came to nothing. But the sight? Far, far more than nothing!

- If having only 4-5% of the sun’s rays coming through just dims our world slightly, and the creatures were unaffected, how great is the sun, and how awesome the God who created it!

- August 22, we were in an area that would have allowed a view of the complete eclipse. Sigh.

- Our experience was not perfect, not what we hoped. But still awe inspiring and wonderful.

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handiwork!

Day's End

Day’s End

August 18, 2017 11:45PM

Rolling through the university town of Angola, Indiana, Route 20 West. A quiet night but for the engine’s grumble. A tall statue centered in the town square to honor Civil War fighters forces traffic into a roundabout (which annoys the Trucker), and past the courthouse adorned with a cupola. On the radio, Bruce Springsteen’s gravelly voice grates out

...Son, take a good look around,

This is your hometown…

Down main street, dark, but for a few night lights on local business establishments. Tables on the sidewalk adjoining a local eatery host a lively gathering, celebrating the completed work week, we suppose. Further on, Gay’s Hops ‘n Schnapps is shuttered but for the overhead neon light in red. Beyond it, an empty lot holds a few “lifted” pickup trucks parked at angles, their chrome shining silver in the streetlights. A group of young men gather around a low slung motorcycle. The eerie blue of its decorative lighting illuminates their shaved heads, leather vests, and knee high boots.

On we roll, along the deserted street. Businesses end, homes shrink to one story and then house trailers, followed by empty lots with just enough wattage to blot out the stars on an otherwise clear night. Billy Joel is now reminding us

These are the times to remember, for they will not last forever;

These are the days to hold onto, cause we won’t, though we’ll want to;

These are the times, for times are gonna change....

The Trucker slows his rig onto a turning lane, and we ease into an empty lot by a sleeping restaurant that will wake with the morning, in time for breakfast. Dan Fogelberg’s words fit the Trucker’s face in the digital glow of the dashboard

The leader of the band is tired, and his eyes are growing old…

Fitting the truck into a narrow space in the row of trucks already parked and slumbering, he turns the key and flips switches. Silence drops the corners of its blanket, wrapping the truck in peace. Logbooks and maps will wait. But for the distant whine of a lonely truck farther down the highway, the land is asleep, along with the Trucker.

Leaving Out

Leaving Out

August 18, 2017

In the humid stillness before dawn, I awake. As every morning, the first conscious thought is a plea. “My children, Lord, please hold my children today, wherever they are.” After a conversation with my Lord, I reach for His hand and face the day.

This morning is a list of lasts. A last breakfast for hubby the Trucker, remaining food freezered to await our return. A last load of laundry, hung indoors also til our return. A last check of the duffle and book bags and briefcase. Packing food and water, arranging it in the truck’s fridge and cupboard as compactly as possible. In the process, I pass through the kitchen to find the Trucker bending over the sink, washing the last dishes. How sweet of him! And he’s already taken out the trash! (He also vacuumed and wiped out the interior of the truck, which somehow I just didn’t get done this week. The exterior has also been washed and shined!) He then starts the truck’s engine and rolls down to the lower drive, where the empty trailer awaits, washed and shined as well. The entire rig gleams in the morning light.

I take a last look around the house, noticing that the Trucker has even carried out my bag. Flipping the lock, I pull the door shut behind me and walk down the road to met the Trucker, now sitting in his seat, making final adjustments. On the way, I meet Daddy, four-wheeling up from morning feeding at the barn, his breakfast egg tucked into a shirt pocket. He assures me, as he always does, that he will keep an eye on things in our absence. A last goodbye, and we part. When your Daddy is 75 years old, every goodbye could be the last. A quick call to sister around the corner, and we are off.

Not quite. Aarrrgghhh. Every time, it seems, I forget something. The Trucker just grins. This Passenger is waiting for the day when she has it all together; he knows that will never happen. Sigh. Fishing in a pocket for keys, I slide out of the truck and jog back up the road. This time it is my pillow that was left behind. I can do without many things, but nine nights without a pillow – that is worth a trot up the road to remedy. If an excuse would help, the pillow was forgotten because I did not make up the bed this morning. That doesn’t work either. Bonus points to the Trucker’s account for tidying the bed, and subtracted from mine for forgetting that as well. Then again, he was the last one out of it...

When I land back in my seat, the engine growls out the drive and past the empty, silent house. Somehow, emotions always bubble to the surface, whether the Trucker leaves alone, or I with him. It is home. And when will it again be the center of joyful activity, daily routines shared with others? What if someone comes by, and we are not there? Again, I reach for the Lord’s hand. “Hold me, hold them, hold us, until Your perfect time.”

Rounding the turn onto Route 23, we see sister’s front door blow open, and her four “littles” swirl onto the front lawn, she behind them. Daddy, coming up the drive from his garage. All six wave, some more energetically than others. The Trucker yanks the air horn, to the special delight of at least one of the “littles,” the rest of which clap small hands over offended ears. I reach from the window, until our loved ones disappear from sight.

On to the shop, where cousin Dennis hands over invoices for the load – packing material bound for a snack food company warehouse in Umatilla, Oregon - and contact information for the receiver. Cousin Mark grins over his phone and wishes us a safe run as we pass the dispatch desk. The Trucker tops off fuel tanks and does a final check. His Passenger stows luggage into crooks and crannies. Two thoughtful gifts are discovered: a new outlet on the shelf by the bunk for her cell phone charger, and a small fan, which also plugs into the outlet, for those hot, still nights, when a breath of air makes all the difference between some restful sleep, or none. She feels quite cared for!

On the way out, I ask the Trucker if he remembers the first time he drove a truck in this lot. Nope. Let’s just say it was well before a license lived in his wallet. He does carry the distinction of being the first person in the company to work on site. He was twelve years old the winter this shop was built. His father pulled a truck into the partially completed building, assigned him to wash it, and moved on to other things. From wash boy to driver to owner operator, with many steps between, the Trucker has a wealth of knowledge and experience.

Now at York, we park at Flexible Packaging, and the Trucker checks in at the office. Back into X door on the dock, when the truck occupying that space moves out. No problem. Except, that driver, instead of pulling out and to the side as a courtesy to the next truck, remains at the dock while catching up on his paperwork in the driver’s seat. After fifteen minutes, the Trucker walks back, and casually asks him to pull up. Thankfully, he does, and the green Kenworth can approach the dock. But, now it is break time for the dock workers. Sigh. Nothing to do but let it go. “If onlys” do nothing but rearrange one’s blood pressure. The Passenger is along for the ride, wherever that takes her. But the Trucker has to juggle schedule, delivery/loading times, routes, rush hours in cities, time and location of fuel stops, logs, and much more in his head.

Meanwhile, the Trucker catches horizontal time in the bunk. A local fly zips, dips and dives around his resting spot, while he grumbles that he did not sign up for the Fly Relocation Program on this trip. The specimen will be well traveled before we get him convinced to abandon his free ride.

And the Passenger prepares for a mouse hunt. On a previous excursion, our laptop mouse (which works much better on rough roads than a touch pad) somehow escaped. We have yet to trap it. A new one was recently procured, and packed, for this trip. It was snuggled into a cozy side pocket last night, but has since vanished. Are they in on this together? Remains to be seen! We hope.

12:30 pm. The truck is finally loaded. Time to go to work. Prep time: six plus hours. The Trucker’s day is just beginning.

In Quietness and Trust

August, 2017

A week of repairs and maintenance. The joy of a freshly overhauled engine, cosmetic and other upgrades, worries over the Big Beast’s (as our nephew and nieces have christened it) performance wiped away. A last meal together, while watching a documentary on the Great Depression, learning things we never knew. A last packing of the week’s food, a last stocking of the mini fridge, a last check that all equipment and provision is in order. A last look round before reluctantly stepping out of the cab. Mindful of my bare feet, the Trucker scoops me off the step and carries me across the stones to the dewy grass. Not as easy to do as it was fifty pounds ago!

And so it is again. The green Kenworth has gone. Easing slowly out of the lower driveway, pulling a trailer loaded with chocolate chips in five gallon buckets, kept by the refrigeration unit at 35 degrees, bound for Eugene, Oregon. The Trucker waves between shifting gears. I wave back with what hopefully is an encouraging smile, praying he cannot see the tears streaming down my face.

After twenty-seven years, I should be used to this. But I never am. A part of me goes with him every time. Always, there is the struggle, more so now than in years past. Should I have gone with him? Which is more selfish, to ride with him into the wide wide world and leave my world behind? Or to stay behind and do what I can to fill needs that fit my abilities here? What is God’s will for me this week? Next week? How can I best fulfill my vow to the man who chose me as his bride? To the God who called me His own?

I wait while the engine sings under its load, up the road, between the fields of tall corn, until it is out of sight. I hear the notes change when the Trucker downshifts, and brakes to a stop at Route 23. A few moments of silence, broken only by the corn rustling in response to morning breezes. Then the song begins again, gradually increasing as gears are shifted and the truck crawls past the corner and into traffic. My ears detect less and less music as the truck picks up speed, passes my sister’s home where her pajama clad crew is certain to be deserting their breakfast to spill onto the front porch and wave an excited goodbye to the Trucker and his chocolate charge. Then silence, but for the breeze-stirred corn and the cheerful chatter of the feathered folk.

My feet slide through the wet grass, my skin delights in the cool breeze, a welcome change from the blazing sun and exhausting humidity of the last week. Too bad the Trucker didn’t have this weather to accomplish his repairs and maintenance, instead of heat that left even his jeans soaked with sweat by noon.

In the house there is quiet, but for the ticking clock and the resident cat’s purr. Sinking down on the sofa where shortly before, the Trucker held me as we prayed together one last time, begging God again for protection, restoration, and comfort in the meantime, I ignore the feline who challenges our no-cat-on-the-sofa rule. She needs someone to be close to and so do I. My tattered emotions can handle her sleeping the day away here better than her disconsolate meowing outside the closed basement bedroom doors, hoping in her furry kitty mind that this time someone will miraculously be in there.

No one will be living here with me for eight days. No one for whom to cook, do laundry, greet with a smile as they come in the door. No one to support in their latest project. And for the last year, no vehicles coming and going, no alarm clocks ringing at odd hours in nether regions of the house. No one bringing in a host of friends to raid the kitchen and fill the house with laughter. No happy conversation around the supper table, enriching all our lives by sharing the day’s experiences. There won’t even be supper. Just silence.

Isaiah 30:15 In returning (repentance) and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength. May I never be guilty of the last part of the verse, but you were not willing….

As somewhat of an introvert, I do enjoy being alone, to a point. But the reason I am alone this week and many weeks, causes pain. Having experienced loss of dear ones in the last year by death, and by abandonment, I find the grief process this experience has thrust me into is mirrored in a smaller way every time the Trucker leaves for a run. I catch myself resisting when time to launder the pillowcase that holds his scent, put away the book he last laid down, finish the project he ran out of time to complete. As if, I might then be able to turn around and suddenly find him here again after all. My head knows this is impractical, my heart peeks out from the protective blinders I allow it to wear in times of weakness, and hopes otherwise. I know, Lord willing, the Trucker will do all in his power to return home. I know his absence is necessary, and I treasure the gift of a husband who takes his responsibilities seriously.

But this whole grief process pales in comparison to that experienced as a result of the unexplained absence of cherished family members, of whom there is no reassurance of return. When my heart can bear it, I stop by their empty rooms, bury my face in their pillows and sob out my grief to the One who knows it all.

And I know the sound of each vehicle driven by cherished absent family members; my heart stops every time a similar sound comes up the road, while my head thinks maybe, just maybe, this time...

I honor the Trucker for his ability to do the job, for fulfilling his responsibility to care for me and his family that remain, his desire to honor God through it all. And there is much for me to do here. God has given me glorious weather in which to work. The garden, flowerbeds, kitchen, laundry, sewing corner, garage, office, all hold tasks that have been neglected in order to spend time with and assist the Trucker while he can be at home. Not to mention other commitments to which I have promised attention. God daily provides wisdom for priorities, discipline for stewardship of time, and hope for the future. May I be trustworthy; sensitive to His still, small voice.