A Father's Sacrifice

So true.  I have had and still have a front row seat to this particular kind of sacrifice.  And it runs far deeper than the thousand words a picture supposedly replaces.

Wind in the West

Saturday.  A day of bright winter sunshine, medium blue sky, and the occasional cloud.  The Trucker and his Passenger were rolling northwest on Route 80, west of Laramie, Wyoming.  

Colors in this view are few.  Gray roadway.  Yellow-brown grasses and scrubby bushes on the rolling hills.  Black, tree covered mountains in the distance.  A light, white snow cover on the ground.  And the aforementioned blue sky and white clouds.

No buildings or living creatures are in sight, nor evidence thereof.

Zig zagging along the left side of the road, multiple miles of rust colored snow fencing, most standing perpendicular to the road.  Snow blown through slats in the fencing lay on the right side of the highway, a dark dirty brown.  Yep, that's another color.  Here, sand is spread on the road for traction against snow and ice, which mingles with the sand and is flung on the shoulder by plows.  

And have we mentioned wind?  Oh yes.  It has no color.  The evidence of it cannot even be seen, but for infrequent little snow tornadoes whipping across the road.  Even on a sunny day, with minimal snow cover, a whiteout is possible.  The road can go from clear and dry to snow covered and slick in an instant, and back again.  And further, when the rising hills are in the right position relative to the winding road, a massive wind tunnel can be created.  

But this wind can be felt.  Quite.  The Passenger mentioned to the Trucker  - this wind will do a number on the fuel mileage?  His response - "Fuel mileage is the least of my current concerns."  This stretch, from Laramie to Rawlins, is most likely to be challenging because of wind.  And the current load is on the light side - a kit with the components to construct a gazebo, large rolls of plastic wrap/labels for food products, and large spools of wire, in varying weights.  Roughly 25,000 pounds, out of a possible 40,000.

The Trucker's full attention is on the road.  Steering carefully, feeling the hit of wind on the truck, countering the blasts, directing the truck's angle.  'Cause if the trailer goes over, we is all goin' over!

The upgrades and downgrades are getting steeper, the hills higher, the snow deeper.  Ahead, far in the distance, barely visible snow capped peaks rise up and merge with clouds.  Is this terrain prairie, desert, or foothills of the mountains?  The Trucker's answer to this question, "Yep!"

Snow fencing, and wind shaped snow.

The windshield was sparkly clean this morning....until the wind began...

Dirty brown snow on the right shoulder...flung by wind and plow.

Sunset in York, Nebraska; Jehovah-Shammah

Late afternoon dusk was fast approaching as the Trucker guided his rig west on Route 80 toward York, Nebraska.

This was the second run since the accident, since all repairs were completed on the green Kenworth.  It had received a wash on the previous trip, seen below, with the water steaming off the cab in the night air.

But the rain and road grime had built up yet again, so a wash was in order.  In York, there was a line, out the drive and back onto the side street, a dirt road.  As there was time, and sunny weather was ahead, the Trucker decided to join the line.

The wait was several hours long, as each truck to enter the wash bay received approximately a half hour treatment.  The Passenger did a little bit of this and a little bit of that, all things better done when stationary.  The trucker stayed in seated, advancing his rig in line every half hour or so.  At length, the Passenger requested and received approval to take a walk.

Beside the line of rigs waiting for the washbay, these massive farm machines parked.  Maybe for their own wash job, maybe waiting for winter storage.

Off the beaten path a bit, and surrounded on three sides by fields, the area was quiet and still.  

Milkweed, its seeds long since floated away on their silk parachutes, stood proudly on the field edges.

Beyond the grass border, a vast expanse of cornfield stretched as far as eyes could see.  The corn harvested away, remaining stalks bent toward the ground, their golden color intensified by the slanting rays of setting sun.

Ahead, the opposite side of the dirt and gravel road, grain bins and associated small buildings sat empty, only echoes of the recent harvest season floating around the vacant property.  Having reached this point, the Passenger stood in the glowing light of evening, listening for the echoes.

Then, she turned and started back.  To her left now, another harvested cornfield, resting in the peaceful accomplishment of a season well done.  In the distance, a few houses bordered the horizon, a simple gray steeple pointing skyward among them.    The setting sun, blazing white and rimmed with a rainbow of color, shot rays across the barren fields in a soundless explosion of light.

Blinking away from the powerful streams of brightness, the Passenger moved westward again, retracing her steps to the waiting Trucker.  Shadows from the power line poles standing guard roadside slanted across her path, though growing ever dimmer in the fading of day.  

Now subdued, the setting sun sent the last of its light across the land.  A gentle glow, it outlined homes and the steeple raised toward heaven in black as they stood joining earth to sky.

In the calm dusk, the melding of day and night, a tranquil restfulness seeps into the soul as well.  Grief and loss are no less present; who is to say whether the streaming tears resulted from such, or from the blazing western sky?  Yet, He who doeth all things well - Jehovah-Shammah - He is here.  

Though the light fades, and our vision is blurred, Jehovah-Shammah is no less among us.  

My Little Decorator

It was the fall of 1996.  The Trucker had gone back on the road after the birth of our third mutual blessing.  I was recovering physically, and learning to manage a household of three littles.  

It had been a very hot summer, with just enough rain, but not too much.  The garden was on overdrive - with weeds I could not conquer.  The lawn was lush - and I could not mow it.  The trees had put on their party dresses, and were showering colorful leaves on the ground - which I could not rake - with every breath of breeze.

And me?  I was perpetually sleep deprived and behind the times, caring for an-almost-four year old, a-not-quite-two year old, and a high-need newborn whose strong will was already showing.  The older ladies at church and in the grocery store would pat my arm and tell me that I was so blessed, and this was the best time of my life, and enjoy it while you can, this time goes by so quickly, and don't worry about garden and flowerbeds and housework, you are growing children right now instead.  All things I knew to be true,  but that kind of encouragement was not what I needed at the moment.

Nor was the insistent pressure from some to "get out for a while."  Hah.  OK, really?  Let's see, planning the day out, securing a sitter, preparing bottles, writing down schedules and pre-cell phone emergency numbers.  Walking away from small hands grasping for you in panic and shrill cries of fear that you are leaving.  "Forget it all and have a good time."  As if.  Then come back and deal with the emotional fallout of three children and play catch-up on the housework?  Ah, nope.

Don't get me wrong.  These little ones were the answer to many prayers.  I loved them desperately.  I knew this was just a season.  It was just....hard....and lonely....and swimming upstream against the opinions of many around me.

Enter a morning in October.  The-almost-four year old, and the-not-quite-two year old were out by the back porch, playing in the sandbox and the carpet of leaves under our spreading maple tree.  In the interest of coaxing the howling infant in my arms to sleep, I had closed the door between front room and kitchen to block out the happy play noises.

While rocking baby, I heard scrapes, thumps, bumps, much swishing and scuffling, and frequent slams of the spring loaded screen door.  I could not come up with a scenario that would account for such sound effects.

The vintage, wooden screen door that led to the back porch had its lower half reinforced with a wooden panel, the result of too many small hands and bodies leaning on the screen and eventually popping it out of the frame.  The Trucker had also thoughtfully installed an outside handle at just the right height for a toddler, sparing me many trips to open the door, and allowing said toddlers a sense of independence in opening the door for themselves.

Baby slumbering at last, and stowed in her crib, I quietly opened the door to the kitchen.  And stood in shocked amazement.

The entire kitchen floor was covered, ankle deep, in a layer of leaves.  Spread evenly with care, to corners and under cabinets.  Dry and crunchy, many had crumbled into small bits.  And by the screen door, eyes sparkling, miniature chest heaving from exertion, small sand bucket in hand, was my not-quite-two year old.  Those sparkling eyes were fixed expectantly on me.

What could I say?  What could I do?  But sweep that pint-sized decorator up in my arms for a hug and a kiss.  And tell her how proud I was of the lovely decorating job she'd done on our kitchen.  And how hard she must have worked, just for me.  

How many trips had those short legs made up the steps, across the porch, dragging that little sand bucket.  Tugging open the screen door, crawling through.  Dumping the bucket, carefully spreading an even layer across the floor.  And back again.  Over and over.  Just to please her Mama.

I couldn't think of it as a mess.  Couldn't dwell on the fact that every step crumbled more leaves into tiny fragments that would need cleaned out.  Couldn't mention that any chance of an afternoon nap was gone, as I had to clean this up while the children slept, before it was dragged onto the carpet and through the rest of the house.

Those sparkling dark eyes were windows into a little heart and soul, a self esteem no less important for being housed in a tiny body.  An emerging desire, a need to please.  And I, the beneficiary of this need.  

Even now, as I write and remember, the tears are streaming.  "Lord, did I 'do good'?  In Your vast universe, with so many important things to manage, do you have a minute to look down on me, 'sand bucket' in hand, seeking approval and affirmation on my hard work?  Did I make it pretty?  Are You happy with me?"

I can only pray that if my dear daughter remembers this escapade, she also remembers feeling appreciated and loved.  That her need to please was filled to the top and overflowed by my response.

And that when she awoke from her well deserved afternoon nap, she didn't notice the cleaned kitchen floor with the old, curling linoleum in full view again.

And how glad I am that she decorated with leaves, and not sand....

The Blanket Grandma Stitched, 28 Years Later

It was 1990.  The Trucker and I were newly returned from our voluntary service assignments, and looking toward the future.  I was not yet the Passenger.

The Trucker was again headed west on regular runs to the coast.  I headed west every morning, a fifteen minute drive to the local insurance office.

On a weekend home, the Trucker expressed interest in another blanket for his bunk.  I had minimal experience with this, but a desire to learn.  And I had Grandma, who with her scissors, sewing machine, and quilt frames, had thousands of quilts and comforters to her credit.

A romantic scenario formed in my thoughts.  Grandma and I shopping for fabric, me choosing just the right colors to match the truck and bunk, she advising on the type and amount.  Then, me doing the cutting, stitching, and knotting under her watchful eye.  A chat with Grandma assured her willingness to participate in the project.

But alas, the romantic scenario escaped her.  Or I didn't explain it clearly.  Grandma's practical nature kicked in immediately.  Next morning when I stopped by to plan the anticipated shopping trip, quilt frames were set up in her "long room."  A flannel comforter was pinned into the frames, half already knotted and rolled at the ends.  Grandma was busily stitching and knotting.  Cheerfully, she announced that by the time I was home from work that evening, she would have it out of the frame, bound, and ready to head west.  And no, I wasn't to pay for any of it!

Oh.

My dreams took an abrupt left turn.  The shopping trip plans collapsed, along with the intention of doing the comforter myself, under Grandma's guidance.  

Always having plenty of fabric on hand, Grandma had pieced her gift of black plaid flannel backing, with alternating squares of black and bright red for the front.  She completed the project by binding the whole thing with maroon strips.

The stitching was beautifully and rapidly accomplished.  The fabric, warm and cozy.  The colors,  all wrong for the truck's interior and for each other, to my way of thinking.

The selfless, loving heart and careworn hands that produced this gift, without compare.

How could I refuse such a gift?  I couldn't.  Swallowing disappointment, I manufactured a smile, and thanked Grandma.  And I was grateful, really.  How could I be otherwise?  

And when the Trucker came to visit, the colors didn't seem to matter, nor whose hands did the stitching.  What mattered was his surprise of having his blanket done so quickly, and how perfectly it fit the bunk.  And how warmly it sheltered him through cold nights on the high plains and mountains.

Twenty-eight years have passed.  That comforter has kept the Trucker warm through nearly three million miles of travel.  The fabric is thin.  The seams are ripping out.  The watting bunched and disintegrating.  Though repaired and redone several times, it's the end of the trail for Grandma's gift.

A new blanket is in progress, this fabric chosen by the Trucker.  Though sewn on my newer machine, the patches were cut by Grandma's old scissors.  Who knows?  They may well have snipped through three million patches in their time.  

Grandma's skill and speed are not mine.  I cannot even lay claim to the depth of love she shared so freely....yet.  In time, but not quite yet.

Still Growing after 27 Years

For my first post-marriage birthday, my new mother-in-law gifted me with a lovely green planter.  She didn't always do gifts, her style was more random.  No less appreciated, though!


Similar to this, but smaller.  Six different plants, I believe, though their names are unknown to me.  Amazingly, they lived, in spite of the fact that my thumb is not very green.  As they grew, they were separated into individual pots.  Through the years, though, most died off.

A few remain.

The tall plant has grown to reach our eight feet high ceiling at least twice, been cut back, and regrown.  More stalks have been added by replanting a section of stem, which then sprouted from each end.  A suggestion from my mother, not that it would have occurred to me to do this.

The vine skirting this pot has received numerous haircuts through the years, and cuttings have filled many other pots, as well as a daughter vine that grew round three walls of our then approximately twelve feet square kitchen.

And this plant.

More slow growing.  It traveled to various rooms of the house over the years, staying strongly upright when the source of natural light was just above.  Putting it outdoors in summer caused it to become limp and lazy.

Rather like our spiritual lives.  When the source of strength is above, and almost-but-not-quite out of reach, we are strengthened by the act of straining toward the life giving Light.  When life is easy, we relax, become apathetic.

There was the time when a conflict between siblings raged; the reason thereof has long since been forgotten.  It concluded when a substantial junior-high-age posterior landed squarely upon the greenery, bending it sharply eastward.  Amazingly, the stems gradually rebounded, stretching again toward sunlight.

However, this plant was outgrowing every space allotted.  And after twenty-seven years, no amount of feeding and lighting and repotting solved the problem of yellowing, dropping leaves on the underside.  And the "stemmy" look.

So, a pruning was in order.  A drastic one.  

Will it sprout again?  Re-grow?  Hopefully so, larger and bushier than before.  We will wait.

Will our hearts re-grow, after the drastic pruning of two years ago?  Hopefully so, larger and bushier than before.  By the grace of God, we will wait.

House Cleaning that Last Room

Quotes from an old movie, recently revisited:

It's not like ---- was the only one around here you ran out on.

You can have roots and wings.

For the Trucker, short run to Wisconsin this week.  All preparations made, but the need of a friend kept his Passenger at home.  Again.  Will it always be so?  Which is God's plan for my life, serving at home, or accompanying on the road?

A few days later, serving completed, a commitment fulfilled.  The joy of caring, an experience to treasure.  Now to the neglected housework.  This museum of memories in which we live.    General cleaning and maintenance easier to avoid, than to accomplish, because of the need to face attending memories.

One room remains to thoroughly clean.

Since you left.

The big basement room, we called it, to distinguish between it and the bedroom section. Where family and friends gathered.  The place of worn sofas, cozy blankets and pillows, movies, books, games, and a welcoming pellet stove.  Empty now, and cold.  Even the echoes have gone.

It's not like ---- was the only one around here you ran out on.

No, it was more than your parents.  Your brothers.  The one who wished to share your life.  Grandparents, cousins.  Church family, friends.

Time doesn't erase the pain.  Doesn't even dull it.  Not for any of us.

Time does reduce the ability to express the pain.

Stifled, it gnaws slowly into our hearts, like rust.  No amount of sanding, or cutting, or painting over, stops the cancerous spread.

But, once again, memories must be faced.  

The grease spots on the carpet from oiling tack.

The scratches below the pegs on the wall from the snaps of your barn coat and coveralls.

The scuffs near the baseboard from the bin that held your work boots and old sneakers.

The corner where you dumped your saddles.

The scrapes on the far side of the stove, from the swivel rocker where you sat to toast your feet on cold winter evenings.

None of these can I bear to treat, to paint over, to buff out.

I think, is there still some place here, some small unseen place, where you touched, where your hand or finger print still lingers?  And might I unknowingly wipe it away with my cleaning rag?

If I could see, if I could know, I'd never, never wipe it off.  I'd set a guard around it, mark the spot, allow no one or no thing to take that last touch of you from this house, a touch that I could claim as mine.

But time marches on, requiring me to clean and tidy this room, at last.  Dust settles.  Spiders climb and spin, beetles scramble, bugs curl up and expire.  They have no respect for grief.  

And the children come to play.  They have long since stopped asking for you.  But I see their furtive glances at the photos on the wall.  At the closed door leading to the bedroom that used to be yours.  The room that held those intriguing books about horses, the delightful stuffed animals, and the "pretties."  All are gone now.  The room is occupied again, by a masculine lifestyle. Just your shelf bolted to the wall remains, now hung with hats instead of necklaces.

You can have roots and wings....it is possible.  But instead of being permitted to do so, you became a puppet, a pawn.  And your parents were robbed of the joy of opening their hands and gently launching you into a life outside these walls.  Instead, in fearful secrecy, obligated to those whose demands robbed you of serenity and security, you vanished.  Thrust into a life for which you were not prepared, for which there was no safety net.  Forced to wall off your heart, to survive.

How long can you fly alone, before finding a place to rest body, mind, and spirit?  How long can you live, without the nourishment that comes from your roots?

This is What It Is Like

Shoes

Death is not the only way to lose a child, or the only kind of loss.  No one of us has a monopoly on pain and loss.

The Home Stretch

Fremont, Indiana.  They awoke in the chill dawn of autumn, the Trucker and his Passenger.  Hours left until legal to start the engine.  Because there was time, and an extra shower on the account, they did.  Breakfast then, after which the Trucker attended to business while the Passenger, with key and duffle bag, traversed the lot back to the truck.  

A few seagulls floated lazily just above the rows of waiting trucks.  And a bit of breakfast oatmeal remained in the bunk.  It's was few days past human edibility.  So she, and they, had fun with that.    No photos here, but a few from Lake Point Utah, where there was another seagull encounter....

Any more food up there??

A row of beaks poking inquisitively along the trailer's edge, lookouts in the event more food appears.

The leader of the pack, peering down into the mirror.

And the one on the side view mirror, who eyeballed the Trucker sternly when no more handouts were forthcoming and rode that mirror through the parking lot before soaring away in disgust.

Tidying the bunk, packing clothing and bedding, consolidating.  Almost home.  At last.

This week has not gone as planned.  When has it?  But our God has provided every step of the way, even those times when fresh grief and betrayal  again dissolved into tears that brought no relief.  He has not promised to ease our path, but hold our hands securely while we navigate it.  As illustrated in a small way in The Lord of the Rings,

Frodo groaned; but with a great effort of will he staggered up; and then he fell upon his knees again. He raised his eyes... to the dark slopes of Mount Doom towering above him, and then pitifully he began to crawl forward on his hands.

Sam looked at him and wept in his heart, but no tears came to his dry and stinging eyes....

'Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get!.... Sam will give you a ride. 

The the Trucker reappeared, the truck was fueled, the countdown complete and the day's drive could begin,

Ron Weaver

55 mins · 

I guess I can go now. Splash in a little fuel and head for home.

5Mark Weiler I'd give it another minute 

Just to be sure 
😜

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Ron Weaver Mark Weiler I put it in granny low and creeped to the fuel pumps before starting the clock.

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Nate Ebersole Like we said back in the day "Hammer Down" !! Have a good day

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Jolting out onto Ohio roads, the clock ticking.  An onion truck ahead; the season is a bit late for onions on a flat bed, as they dare not freeze.  Though the photo did not capture the black smoke pouring from his stacks when he shifted gears, it was plentiful.  The Trucker commented that his load would be well seasoned and "fume"igated upon delivery.

The Trucker de-bugged the windshield this morning, though the squeegee provided was less than adequate.  And the wiper fluid tank appeared to be empty, or the correct switch could not be located, or possibly both!  So there are onions on the far side of those smudges.

Thinking back to the previous day in Nebraska.  Crisp and clear and dry.  Fields of corn and soybeans, while mature, were parched and brown-gold in color.  Massive combines, tractors, and trailers traversed vast acreages, brown clouds of dust twisting above them.  Forecasted rain for the week was measured in tenths of inches, unlike the deluges experienced on the east coast recently.

And before that, arrival at long last in Lincoln, Nebraska. Early Monday morning.  To the Kenworth facility where the Green-and-White waited, wearing a new transmission.  In the early morning, the Passenger packed up the Penske, transferred bags to the Kenworth, and remade beds and stocked cupboards while the Trucker settled paperwork and drove the Penske down the road from whence it came.

Upon his return, the mandated pre-trip inspection.  And the un-mandated photo.  

During which an air leak was heard.  Too serious for the road.  Replacement air bag needed.  Another delay.  Shoulders slumped, the Trucker returned to the shop.  Yes, they can do this today.  Give them an hour, and it will be in the shop.  So far, so good.

The Passenger has been working this year on a project.  Names of Jehovah stitched on fabric.  meditating the while on reminders of Who He is.  The hours in the truckers' lounge produced, among others, Shalom (He is Peace), Jireh (He Will Provide), and most needed for the journey, Shom (He is There).  This last name is also the root of the word guard, as nearly as the Passenger can understand.  So needed today, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  

The Passenger is rather slow on the uptake at times.  Especially in the driver's lounge, when it dawned on her that the book she packed to study this week parallels her stitchery project.  How could she not have made that connection before??  God Himself planned that!

And now, the homeward stretch.  Five hours and fifty-two minutes til a mandatory "break" which is more like a high pressure rush to accomplish all that is necessary before hitting the road again.  Careful management will allow the Trucker to reach Philadelphia, deliver his load

of pears, and arrive home, before the clock insists upon a ten hour break.  

The sun is shining, the Son is here.