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.