When Your Friend is Grieving a Prodigal

Fromm the perspective of the Trucker and his passenger.  Not to say this is everyone's opinion or experience ...

- This grief is very real. It is like a death, only there is no closure. Time does not heal. It is a nightmare from which your friend cannot awaken.

- All stages of grief will be experienced, and often all at once. Allow space to work through them.

- DO NOT say, “After a while you will feel better/get over it/be glad it happened.” Whether or not these statements will become true, the grieving person is not ready to hear them, and the statements add yet another cruel burden.

- DO NOT say, “Maybe this happened because you didn’t love him/her enough/did this/didn’t do that.” Possibly these are the most cruel comments ever. Any true parent will recognize the lie here. Your friend has enough guilt of her own to struggle with, justified or not. She doesn’t need yours.

- DO NOT GOSSIP, even under the guise of “sharing a prayer request.” Just pray.

- DO NOT give advice unless you have earned the right, and few have.

- DO NOT recommend books, scriptures, songs or sermons, etc. unless asked. If something was particularly meaningful to you, ask permission before sharing it, and NEVER go back and ask if they read/listened to your recommendation. Grieving takes an incredible amount of time and energy. Do not assume you know what is needed or that your friend can absorb your information.

- RECOGNIZE that going out in public, even for routine errands, is extremely difficult. Your friend feels conspicuous, not knowing who “knows” and who doesn’t, and is fully aware “things” are being said behind her back. Invitations out and requests to visit should be given carefully, and refusals accepted without judgment.

- BE AWARE that tears are always just under the surface. Neither you nor she knows what the triggers may be at any given time. Give space to grieve, whatever form it takes. Supply tissues,  hugs, words of comforting scripture, and refrain from asking for explanations.

- Words are not always necessary. An understanding smile, a gentle touch says it all.

- DO NOT be offended if she passes you by when you invite conversation. She may not have the emotional energy for interaction, or may have emotions too close to the surface to enable her to bear even your kind attention.

- KNOW that there is no emotional energy to deal with day-to-day, all is taken up with the crisis situation. This will be her life long after everyone else has gone on with their own.

- DO NOT ask, “How are you?” unless you truly want to know, and have time to hear.

- Every new season, holiday, anniversary, will bring fresh grief, and a setback in working through the stages of grief. Be open to sharing your family at these times, but do not pressure. Much as your care is appreciated, your grief stricken friend may not have the emotional stamina to “celebrate” or even be with other people.

- DO tell her about your own family, your joys and sorrows. She may weep again over her own loss, but to withhold your own life will make her feel even more isolated. Sharing your child(ren) will be a comfort.

- IF you have a connection with the prodigal, LET YOUR FRIEND KNOW. She is still a mother, still loves her child. She craves information about her child that is now denied her. Tell her about your connection, what her child looked like, what was said (if confidentiality doesn’t apply), how her child is doing. Yes, she will weep, but she will also weep, not knowing. She will eventually learn about your connections with her loved one(s) and will feel betrayed yet again if you try to hide it.

- IF you have a connection with the prodigal, ASK GOD first about challenging him/her regarding their responsibilities in the broken communication, and prompt him/her toward reconciliation as directed in scripture.

- Mention the elephant in the room, then set it aside. Everyone knows it is there anyway.

- Weep with those who weep.

- Pray, pray, pray.

Things I Learn - Runaway Truck Ramps

Things I Learn – Runaway Truck Ramps

January 30, 2018

Route 94, toward the sunrise. Coming down the mountains in central Montana. A quiet morning – but when are the mountains noisy? The low hanging blanket of clouds is separating, revealing mountain peaks in the distance, and puffy, rolling clouds soaring above. The sun’s brightness is just beginning to glow between peaks and clouds.

After a low gear, grinding ascent, the truck faces a long, curved, downhill grade. Its weight, including 44,000 pounds of boxed, palletized Fuji, Gala, Daisy, and Red Delicious apples, and a full load of fuel, push forward. Instead, the Trucker flips a switch. The truck responds with a loud, continuous roar, but obediently holds back.

A compression brake, developed in the 1940’s by a man named Jacobson, commonly referred to as a Jake brake. It puts pressure on the exhaust valves, not allowing them to open fully. The blocked exhaust backs up and builds pressure in the motor, hindering its ability to turn freely, thus slowing the motor, and in turn hindering the truck’s ability to roll freely. This helps control the truck’s speed without depending entirely on the brakes.

Necessity truly is the mother of invention, as the saying goes. Mr. Jacobson had made a trip to California with a friend. Their vehicle lost brakes traveling down Cajon Pass in California, along old Route 66 between Victorville and San Bernadino, California.

Modern brakes alone can safely bring a truck to the bottom of a mountain. The trucker needs to start down very slowly, at times first coming to a complete stop, and know how to use brakes without making them overheat. A light, steady pressure is better than an on and off pressure, for keeping brakes cool.

Midway down the grade, though, is a clearing on the road’s right shoulder, leading to a sharp uphill. Unused, thankfully, for some time, as evidenced by a smooth sheet of snow and ice over the clearing. A runaway truck ramp.

A runaway truck ramp is placed at various locations on steep downgrades to give the trucker an option to stop his truck if he sees his speed is too fast to safely continue, and/or if his brakes fail. Ramps are made with deep, loose gravel. Most are aimed in a sharp upward incline from the road. The loose gravel will suck the truck down, and, along with the uphill grade, bring it to a stop.

 In some locations, where there is not space to build a long ramp, heavy timbers are buried crossways in the gravel, to stop the truck before it reaches the ramp’s end. The loose gravel will damage the truck somewhat, and require the services of a tow truck to extricate its victim. But the buried timbers will knock axles out from under the truck, most likely totaling it in the process of stopping it.

Route 84 in Oregon, August 2017.  This trucker needed a ramp to stop, though it didn't take much of the ramp.  Note at end of video, his front axle is twisted.

The alternative? An out of control truck, 80,000 pounds if loaded to the legal limit, taking out anything and anyone it its path before finally crashing.

The Trucker’s daily prayer is for safety and protection; that he would not harm anyone else. He will sacrifice his livelihood, and himself if needed, to protect those around him.

Wheat Montana Bakery and Deli

January 27, 2018

I-90 West.  A light snow cover on the ground.  Chilly temperatures, but not extreme.  The Trucker stopped for fuel in Missoula, Montana.

Then, just past the Jefferson Rivers, where Route 287 crosses I-90, a lunch stop.  It was Trucker's idea.  A new place to try for lunch.  The Wheat Montana Bakery in Three Forks, Montana.  A part of Wheat Montana Farms, whose main office was a bit farther east, along Route 2 between the Missouri and Jefferson Rivers.

A bit about Wheat Montana Farms, from their website:

The Folkvord family has been involved in agriculture for three generations. Through hard work, determination and good fortune, Wheat Montana Farms has become the model agriculture operation of the Northern Great Plains. Our operations encompass 15,000 acres of the most productive soil in Montana. Located near the headwaters of the Missouri River near the town of Three Forks and surrounded by the majestic Elkhorn Mountains. At 5,000 feet above sea level, it is also the highest elevation grain is grown in North America. The low rainfall, high elevation and cool nights on our farm result in some of the highest quality grains in the world.

Today Wheat Montana is still Family owned and operated. Our staff consists of over 180 dedicated employees with some of the highest credentials in the field. Our facility includes grain cleaning, processing, flour milling and a full scale bakery that services a five state area. Our grains, cereal, and flour are sold nationwide.

The land owned and farmed by Wheat Montana today has a long history.  It was traveled and described by Lewis and Clark.  Again from Wheat Montana's website:

...describing the discovery of the Three Forks of the Missouri River.....The perch where Lewis penned his description happens to be only a few hundred yards from where we now farm acres of the "beautiful plains" he describes. There is no doubt that he was looking over some of the land that we now call Wheat Montana Farms. The view, save some power lines and farm roads is still intact, and to us, still rather spectacular. We can today, stand in this very spot and wonder what Lewis might have been thinking.

We are often sent into wonderment, when we see the old homesteads like the one on our farm. While it's usually a nuisance to navigate our machinery around these old buildings, where pioneers once toiled, it always sets the mind in motion. One can only imagine the adversity faced by these people, determined to succeed on these open prairies of Montana.

Around our farm today, there remain about twenty locations where farmsteads once existed. We estimate, at one time though, that there were probably 65 homesteads on the land we now farm. A review of the land abstracts reveals much about the ownership of what is now Wheat Montana Farms. Originally, most of the land was deeded to the Northern Pacific Railway. Then, slowly it was parceled out to homesteaders, where erstwhile farmers made a go at tilling and farming the land. The land documents chronicle a lively history of ownership changes and even foreclosures. During the late 20's and early 30's much of the ground was taken back by the County as the owners defaulted on tax debt. One 640-acre section was offered for $33.00 on the Courthouse steps and no one showed up to bid. Then during the post war 40's the demand for land returned, and a fresh crop of farmers took over and prospered.

It's really quite remarkable that today one family, and one farming operation, covers the same ground. It's a stark testament to the realities of this business, and the changes in agriculture during the past 80 or so years. 

But back to lunch.  

The entrance was a grain bin.  

Inside, wheat was available for sale by the bag.

All manner of wheat and related products for sale.

A coffee/sandwich shop, deli, bakery was available.

 
The sandwiches were delicious.  Think Isaac's with fresh, homemade, whole wheat bread.

The Passenger could have browsed all day.  She did photograph a few choice recipes from the books on sale, before realizing that the cookbook was also available for free online.

The Trucker enjoyed his sandwich as well.  Though he was not as "filled" when the meal was over.  And the prices were a bit high, though maybe not so much, considering the quality of the ingredients.  

A bag of hard Montana winter wheat was purchased and tucked under the bunk for later use.

Then it was back on the road again, on to Chehalis, Washington, with that herd of chocolate bunnies!

Of Bunnies, Buggies, and Bumpy Lots

January 26, 2018

Rolling forward on I 90/94 West. A quiet morning. Small farms line the highway, nice small houses and decrepit barns. Fields of corn stubble show black soil between small piles of leftover snow. Occasional tufts of trees break the landscape. Under a clear sky, the temperature stands at 34 degrees.

It was especially difficult to leave home this time. Needs at home and on the road, that sense of “unfinished”, yet the “finish” is out of our control. Tears did not mean unwillingness to go, but yet another wrenching of the emotions the Passenger has little reserve to handle these days.

The Trucker and his Passenger are a fine pair this trip. He is suffering damage in his ear, causing constant pain and diminished hearing, the result of a rather aggressive procedure a few days ago. She is bearing the symptoms of the season, most notably in the lack of vocal ability. It could be argued that makes her a more valuable Passenger? This inability to speak? We won’t risk expanding that topic at the moment. Suffice it to say, communication is whispering on the part of the Passenger, with the usual response of “What’d ya say?” on the part of the Trucker. This in competition with engine noise.

A light load, this time. From the Palmer Company in Reading, PA, a full load in volume, but not in weight. According to the packing slip, 19,950 hollow chocolate bunnies have been herded into the trailer. I use the word “herd” because that is what a large group of rabbits is called, provided they are domesticated. The Trucker assures me his rabbits are indeed domesticated, as opposed to a “fluffle”, which is a large group of wild rabbits. (Huh. Really? I’ve been using that word as a joke for years! Nice to finally learn it is a real word.) 

Included in this bunch of hollow bunnies are such characters as Peter Rabbit (4,320 of him), Bunny Big Ears (2,412 of them), Professor D. Crisp (1,500 of that esteemed variety), and so on.

Being hollow, the bunnies actually weigh less than their packaging, the lot of which adds up to less than 11,000 pounds. Lord willing and the wind doesn’t rise, this load will make it over the Rockies with all 18 wheels on the road.

A day of driving brought the big green Kenworth to the 5 & 20 Country Restaurant in Shipshewana, IN. A large dirt lot, a warm building, a tasty supper. The Trucker parks in the row, wearily noting that some, at least appear settled for the night. We, however, have miles to go before we sleep.

The dining area was packed with black garbed Amish. The only relief in the sea of home-sewn black were white shirts on the men, and stiff, almost cylindrical shaped caps on the women. Amish in this area do not farm, for the most part, but make up a large part of the work force in the local RV industry, for which the area is known. Out back, the horses attached to their black, square buggies were having their own social gathering.

While debating her order, the Passenger hesitated over the buffet’s price tag. The softspoken, middle aged, Beachy Amish waitress kindly offered, “Did ya wanna chust try the soup & salad, then if yer still hungry, ya can do the whole thing and chust tell me how much ya ate?” Ah, no. “Still hungry” will not be a problem. While seated, the Trucker asked his Passenger, “May I take your photo?” OK. “And may I post it?” Sigh. I guess. He had a specific reason for this, which will remain undisclosed for the moment. She should have known better than to trust his evaluation of her appearance, though…

Back on the road, to put Chicago in the rearview mirror, as the Trucker says, before morning rush hour. Chicago at night equals rush hour in Lancaster county, in the Passenger’ uneducated opinion. The city never sleeps. When traffic keeps moving, approximately 90 minutes is required to cross the city. Which it did, this time. Tall office and apartment buildings, some old, some modern, most windows still lit at 8pm. Twined around them, a tangled jungle of streets, roads, highways, over and under passes. The Trucker is heard to wince on occasion, as a particularly sharp pain slices his ear.

After debating fuel prices at two locations, the Trucker settles on a fuel stop at Elgin, IL. Cheaper fuel was an hour down the road, but the likelihood of a parking space there was slim. So, a bit of fuel, then a tight maneuver into one of the few remaining parking spaces. Just as it was accomplished, the Trucker noted a “reserved” sign. No way to know if the truck for whom it was reserved will show up in the night. 

Across the street, to try again. Blutzing through a rutted, unpaved lot, with random snow and ice patches, the Trucker backs his rig into the last row, bordered by a collection of discarded tires and assorted trash. Finally settled and able to relax in the bunk, as sleep was drifting in, a firm knock sounded on the door. The Trucker got up, to see a security personage who inquired, “Didya know ya gotta pay $10 to park here?” Too exhausted to argue, the Trucker paid, and collapsed into sleep.

Awakening in the early morning darkness, stumbling through the rutted, icy lot between rows of sleeping trucks, the Trucker and Passenger find the buildings closed and locked. A trip down the road will be required for “facilities”. Welcome to another day in the Trucker’s life!

Sandwiches warmed in the microwave constitute breakfast on I 90/94 West, as we watch a new day dawn. The Trucker’s pain has increased, the Passenger’s voice has not. On to Chehalis, WA, with the hollow bunnies!   

Navigating Google, and Restoring What Was Lost

January 4, 2018

Early this morning, after sending Son #2 off to face a windy day on snowy roads, I sat at my kitchen table and once again gave all my children to God, petitioning Him for grace and safety as they are on the wintry roads today.

The next order of business was to email a dear friend. Opening Gmail, I began typing a name, and the contact popped up. However, the smiling face in the little round circle was that of a young adult child in the family, not the friend with whom I was communicating.

Let me step out of the gmail circle a moment, and explain. This old fashioned girl has always kept her address book organized by family unit. Parents and children in one listing. Makes sense, right? Same address, same phone, etc. Really. 

 Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were on a party line? My Dad and Grandpa were actually featured in the local newspaper in 1958, for the novelty of being the first in the area to have an extension phone in the barn! Homework was done with neighborhood friends, not by Skype or Facetime, for example, but on the party line, to the annoyance of adults who had “real” business to conduct.

 And don’t forget Little Brother who would sneak up to the extension phone in your parents’ bedroom to stealthily listen in on your “secret” conversation with friends. Worse, after waiting, just forever, for that special boy to call, he does.

 But while you are breathlessly chatting, attempting to be cool and casual, you hear the grandfather clock chiming. The grandfather clock that lives in Grandma’s house across the lawn. Grandma’s not quite as stealthy. Or subtle. You just know what she’s going to do with what she overheard! Oh, the embarrassment and frustration.

 But we were family, and while we may not have had many secrets, the transparency was a safeguard that protected us from pitfalls faced by today’s younger generation.

Enter modern technology and social media. Now, everyone not only has their own phone and corresponding number, but social media accounts as well. The page has gotten filled up. So, my friend, who is not on social media beyond a family email address, by virtue of having a child who is, becomes represented by that child’s smiling face in the little circle on my gmail contact list.

As a result, I have been gradually changing my contacts to listings on an individual basis, instead of a family unit. (Kinda like how society in general is moving, both in thought and action, huh?)

 Now, it is early morning. The house is quiet. The Trucker is still asleep. I am too lazy to get up and procure pen and paper to copy down information so that it can be deleted from one account and applied to another. (And yes, I know there is a more efficient way to do this, but I have not yet learned that, either….) But, a brilliant thought – yes, I do have the odd flash now and then – occurred. My phone is in my pocket. I can bring up the account on my phone, delete the info from my laptop, then use the phone’s info to re-enter it on a new account on the laptop! Done.

You are ahead of me by now. Waaaaay, way ahead. Instantly, my phone emitted a fweeep!, and wiped its face of the contact information as well. Duh. Why did I think for a minute they were separate individuals, when in reality they were just two different faces attached to the same body of information? Now I had a problem. Multiple people could supply me with the lost information. But to which of those would I want to admit my stupidity? None.

The only thing left to do is ask Google. It of the little round circles. It who knows everything, just like Grandma on the party line back in the day, though we humans like to delude ourselves into thinking we have some privacy left. So I asked. And learned there was a marvelous little sequence of clicks I could perform, after which it would give me the option of restoring my contact list to what it was ten minutes ago, an hour, a day, or any combination I cared to dream up. 

Ten minutes ought to do it. Click, click, click. Upon which the display on my laptop screen fluttered, and my phone sounded another surprised little fweep! And what do you know? (Not much, if you are me.) The deleted contact was back. Just as if it had never left. 

 This time, I approached the task with a bit more intelligence, and my contacts, for this family at least, are finally separated into individual accounts. Now my dear friend’s little circle is blank, and the young adult child’s face smiles at me from a little gmail circle all its own.

 We have gone from many faces on one media, to one face on many media. There are things to be learned every day, even on early morning bunny trails.

Now, back to my email.

If only I could restore the losses of the last two years as easily....