Pet Grass

Last week the Passenger was at home alone, for the most part.  And though she loves a good snowstorm, it was time to ingest a bit of spring.  So off to a local greenhouse, to gaze in delight at creative displays, to walk among rows of plants and dream, to breathe deeply of oxygen rich air.

On a certain display table, in a cute little pot, a collection of greenery, obviously from the grass family.  Straight sprouts about three inches tall, each the same height, like a little boy's buzzed haircut.  The identifying spike pushed in the container's edge said:

Now, we have two overstuffed felines with an advanced sense of entitlement who share our house during cold weather.  They know where they are permitted to locate, or not, in the house, and mostly comply.  Or hastily relocate when discovered.  Chewing on houseplants has never been an issue, though at times the Passenger thinks she wouldn't mind entirely if they did, providing the gnawed plant was incompatible with cat-able life.  She is that tired of dealing with the fluff they leave in their wake.

But, the pot was attractive, and only cost a few dollars.  So it went along home, was transferred  to a lined basket filled with potting soil, and placed on a windowsill in bright light, as directed.  Shortly, curiosity compelled Cat to jump to the sill, sniff and commence chewing.

Looking closely, this former farm girl realized, "Pet Grass" is simply oats!  Or barley, or wheat, or a mixture thereof.  That explained the instructions to trim the grass regularly, for after the head forms, the grass's taste is not as appealing, and if trimmed after the seed head develops, the grass will die.

Purchase a bag of grain from the mill, plant in cute pots, give it a name and a fancy label, and your product will sell to the unsuspecting uninformed!  This gal felt rather foolish not to have noted sooner what the product really was.  A run round the internet found numerous sites selling the same or a variation of the same, including one that sold 4 oz bags of "mixed pet grass seeds" with "complete instructions" for growing and maintaining, an absolute bargain for only $28!

But on the Passenger's windowsill, it is still green and growing, though now a bit tousled and uneven.  The cats still stop by for the occasional chew.  And a good laugh, or purr, as the case may be, was had by all.

"He is not here, 'cause He is WISSEN from de dead!"

Spring is coming.  Slowly.  Is it slower for real, or just in my imagination?  The year's weather seems to be a bit blonde, with apologies to all my blonde friends-and-relations.  One day is 50 degrees, calling for shirtsleeves and bare feet, the next brings a foot of wet snow.  As March beckons April, is it yet safe to stow the snow shovel?

Every change of season brings a fresh wave of grief.  The new season, though welcome, is yet another marker of time gone by and no change in the attitudes and actions that provoke our grief.  Each season also includes its own holidays, which instead of the former joyful celebrations, are now fraught with pain.  

Last Easter Sunday's service included a reading of Matthew 28.  A beloved triumphant chapter.  Our little ones memorized this whole chapter at a tender age with just the mere effort of listening to it read every night for two weeks.  In fact, in a drawer resides a precious cassette tape holding their childish recitation of the passage.  

Grief never gives advance warning of its triggers.  

When the pastor began reading, "At the end of the Sabbath, as it began to dawn, on the first day of the week," my mind flashed back to our first precious daughter, at three years old, reciting in her baby voice, giving random emphasis on the words.

"...as it began to DAWN...," and 

"wolled back de stone, and SAT on it...(this always accompanied by a giggle)," and 

"He is not here, 'cause He is WISSEN from de dead!"

Sudden, uncontrollable sobs wrenched and heaved their way through my chest, as I desperately attempted to choke them back.  Too far gone in my emotion to walk down the aisle and outside, my only recourse was to tuck my streaming face behind my dear hubby's arm and soak his sleeve with tears.  Again.

Does she still remember that chapter?  Can she still quote what she learned, cuddled in my lap?  Does she care?  And even, where is she?  And will I see her again, in this world or the next?

Had I known that Easter morning, a whole year would pass with no change; our family members still divorced from each other, misunderstandings and selfish hurts still tenaciously clung to, the spiritual strongholds of lies, fear, and control still angrily in place, my expression of grief could not have been kept appropriately quiet for a Sunday service.

Deuteronomy 33:25-27 , the promise given to Asher son of Jacob, rings true. 

"As thy days, so shall thy strength be."  

David Jeremiah says this about Deuteronomy 33:

Moses... prayed that as long as the tribe of Asher existed, it would possess strength—strength equal to its days. As long as you’re alive, Moses told them, you will have the strength you need to do what God assigns and you will have strength to bear whatever each day brings.

But there’s more. Verses 26–27 go on to say: “There is no one like the God of Jeshurun [the God of the Upright], who rides across the heavens to help you and on the clouds in His majesty. The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”⁴

These were actually the final blessings spoken by Moses on this earth.  He blessed the tribes of Israel, finishing with Asher, then climbed the mountain for a look at the promised land, and passed through death to God.

As a child grafted into God's family, I too can claim this promise.  No, I do not know what the future holds.  Yes, I am glad not to know.  But even though my days hold the weariness of long term grief and loss, with unanticipated outbursts, I know that God's strength is mine, doled out in daily batches.

Just as I hid a streaming face behind my husband's arm and drenched his sleeve with tears, so also I can securely hide in those Everlasting Arms to grieve.  Knowing that there will always be enough grace, no matter the length or severity of my pain, because, "His mercies are new every morning; great is His faithfulness."

Although this is a season of triumphant joy, it is also a reminder of sacrifice, of loss, of pain, unimaginable for those who have not experienced it.  Yet because He lives, even through my tears, I can still proclaim with confidence, 

"He is 'WISSEN' from de dead!"

Weeping Endures for the Night...

Weeping endures for the night...

2:02AM. The house is quiet, but for ticking clock on the wall, and snoring feline sprawled under the sofa. In two short hours the alarm will sound, oblivious to the fact that sleep’s lack has made its service unnecessary.

Preceding short nights meant struggles to be wakeful in the day. That miserable place of not being able to sleep yet not alert. Which meant a concerted effort to begin sleep earlier, this time. The only thing accomplished was to sleep through the window of opportunity to chat with the Trucker in Montana. And now sleep is over before it has rightly begun.

I wonder, if the long night will ever end. Yet fresh grief always comes with the dawn, a reminder of passing time with no healing. Nights are endured by hope for the day, but day just brings a longing for night, a futile hope that it will ease pain brought by the day.

In earlier times, loss meant mirrors were turned to the wall, windows and persons were draped in black. For months, even a year or more. Death was so much more commonplace that some women rarely had the opportunity to wear anything other than black, as before the year of mourning was over, another death had occurred.

Morbid, you say? Maybe. But in our high speed world, some things just cannot be rushed. Until you experience grief, you have no idea. Especially in our strong-work-ethic culture, where your worth comes from what you accomplish in a day. Grief is a work all its own, with no visible result, no sense of accomplishment at the end, because there is no end.

When the funeral and burial process is complete, it is assumed time to re-enter life. To move on. Return to work. Be productive. "Get over” the loss. But to “get over” a loss means the loss has to go away, and it never does. The gaping wound left when a loved one leaves your life cannot be filled by anyone else.

Time is needed, for which society does not allow space. Therefore, we do not heal. Our grief just goes underground. To fit society’s expectations. The demand to re-enter life as they know it, ready or not. So we go through the motions, while bleeding dry on the inside. Because the loss never truly goes away until that great Resurrection Day, grief is never fully “over” until then, either.

What, exactly, is grief? It is the bleeding of one’s spirit, the draining away of life, the wound when something or someone near and dear is yanked away. The physical body visibly sheds blood when crushed or broken, yet grief is unseen to the physical eye. We only see the symptoms. And we cannot feel another’s pain, or take it away, or fix it. We can only share it for a short while, sometimes.

But what happens when there is a loss, but no death? No funeral, no burial, no grave at which to mourn? What happens when there is silence and emptiness where once was sound and fullness? When possessions are sorted and packed, loaded and driven away leaving echoing rooms and the faint scent of a favorite perfume behind, yet the one lost still lives on earth….somewhere...willfully out of reach?

When you desperately need to cry, those tears you choked back will not be denied any longer, yet you are so tired of crying that you fight harder to control the emotion, knowing that it will break out at the worst possible time anyway.

When those around you react to the news in shock and sympathy, but have no idea how to help? When their best attempts don’t come close to touching your grief? When you desperately need someone, yet need to be alone at the same time? When they ask how you are doing, but there aren’t hours and hours to answer that question honestly? When they give up and go on with their lives, and you desperately want them to stay, yet have no reason to hold them and feel guilty for needing them? When you cannot blame them if they are weary of your story, your sadness? Quite frankly, you are tired of it too.

What about when the loss of your dear one has come about through betrayal by a trusted friend? When there are whispers and quick glances and uneasy shuffling and doubts about your character? Maybe you are withholding some information, maybe you ARE to blame for what happened, maybe we will not quite trust you anymore, after all? At least until you ask forgiveness? Trouble is, you don’t know what you are expected to ask forgiveness for.

When you begin to doubt yourself; maybe “they” are right, it is my fault, I should have done this, not done that? Yet you know from Scripture those voices are not true.

Grief is a burden no one ever asks for. It comes unexpectedly, with no owner’s manual, no time table. It is a STOP sign that cannot be circumvented, in a world that rushes on by. It is memories that whisper from every corner of life. It is the silence that shouts. It is emptiness when others are full. It is isolation, because no one else loved this precious one quite like you did.

There is only One who truly understands. Who cares. And will redeem the loss. In His time. For now, the message is what a friend texted to the Trucker on a particularly raw morning:

There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death. Romans 8:1-2

Therefore,

I cry out
For your hand of mercy to heal me
I am weak
I need your love to free me

Oh Lord, my Rock
My strength in weakness
Come rescue me, oh Lord

You are my hope
Your promise never fails me
And my desire
Is to follow You forever

--Craig Musseau

...but a shout of joy comes in the morning...Psalm30:5

Lord, we are still waiting for the morning...the fulfillment of Your promise.

Cabbage Hill and Deadman's Pass

This week the Trucker travels alone.  So does his Passenger.  There are times both will wish they were where the other is, for various reasons, not the least of which is so they could be together.

But the Trucker sent me some photos of his travels yesterday.  Going down Cabbage Hill in Oregon.  "I can see for miles and miles," he said.

Route 84 in Oregon (otherwise known as the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Highway), between the towns of La Grande and Pendleton, is known as Cabbage Hill.   It travels through an area known as Deadman Pass.  This route closely follows that of the Oregon Trail.

As the Trucker follows the route northwest, he has a climb of over 2,000 feet, which is full of hairpin turns and steep grades.  From the top, as you can see above, the view defies description.

Heading down the western slope, Cabbage Hill closely follows the Oregon Trail route.  The descent drops 2,000 feet in the six miles between mile markers 227 and 217, with many double hairpin curves.  A weigh station that includes a brake check area is located at mile marker 227.  Runaway truck ramps are located at mileposts 221 and 220.

Winter conditions often make the pass treacherous, even for experienced drivers.  A large percentage of accidents on this stretch involve out of state drivers.  The Trucker has never had a problem; Lord willing, that grace extended to him will continue.  

Why is the area known as Cabbage Hill?  In the 1870's a farmer by the name of Crawford lived on the mountain, and raised sheep and cabbages for market.  The farmer, farm, sheep, and the cabbages are gone, but the name remains.

Why Deadman's Pass?  In 1876, there were hostilites between travelers on the Oregon Trail and the local Bannock Indians of the Snake Valley in Idaho.  There were fears as the Indians moved north into the Umatilla Valley of Oregon, they would travel over the Cabbage Hill pass and further threaten the pioneers.  Indeed, on July 12, 1876, four freight haulers were attacked and killed near what is present day Meacham.  It was never determined exactly who was responsible for the attack, though it is thought to be Bannock warriors.  Thus, the name Deadman's Pass.

It is nothing short of amazing that the pioneers on the Oregon Trail managed to negotiate this pass with their wagons and families.  Even today the pass is a serious challenge, with a paved asphalt road.

A view borrowed from the internet:

The runaway truck ramp going up the center of the photo.

Seek the LORD While He May Be Found

March 12, 2018

It was early, 5:30AM local time on I-5 in California.  The Trucker and Passenger were enroute to the Costco warehouse in Tracy, California with ten skids of canned mushrooms.  Darkness blotted out surroundings, but for the red tail lights ahead, and the white headlights in the opposing lanes.  On distant hills, rows of red lights flashed in unison every few seconds.  The wind turbines at work.  In the black sky, a distinct crescent moon hung low, now partially obscured by lacy clouds, now completely in view.  The quiet peacefulness, the beauty, cannot properly be captured by word or photo, but only by the senses.

Traffic was light, by California standards.  Though were the Passenger at the wheel, she would have preferred less.  As if at a signal, on ramps filled with vehicles of all kinds, flowing onto the freeway.  Cars, pickups, trucks.  Flowing, swirling, changing lanes with smooth precision.  The morning rush hour has begun.  

The forty mile trek between truckstop and warehouse, owing to rush hour traffic, was spent with as much time devoted to the last five miles as the first thirty-five.  Inching along behind another trailer, the Passenger no longer can absorb the scenery.  Instead she becomes aware of the words printed on the rear doors.

Seek the LORD while He may be found; call upon Him while He is near.  Isaiah 55:6

Not the usual message found on a vehicle on the California freeways.  But thought provoking.

The Hebrew for Seek carries the meaning of pursuing, to look for, to ask, to worship.  Call has the idea of calling out, attracting attention.  While He may be found means to come out, to appear, to be present.

How often do I go through the motions of life, one step at a time, and take God's presence, His care, His desire for a relationship with His people, for granted?  God is not limited.  In any way.  He can even use the rear doors of a semi trailer to prompt a conversation with Him.  But it is our decision when to call out, to ask for His attention.  He does not force Himself upon us, but allows us to reach for Him when whenever we wish.  The unspoken promise is that when we call, He will be found available.

The Trucker changed lanes, and exited onto Route I-205.  The trailer wearing scripture continued on, Lord willing, to bear witness of Himself to others this day.

The verse was on the left center.  Enlarging the photo blurred 

the words.

Loveland, Colorado, A Sam's Club Warehouse

March 10, 2018

Loveland, Colorado. The alarm on the Trucker’s phone dingles. 40 degrees. Not cold enough to run the heater, not warm enough to make rolling out a pleasure. Time to grab a jacket, and head to the restaurant/convenience store/restroom building. Across the lot, over the curb, across the strip of decorative stone and desert bushes where dogs have been, across another lot, up the steps.

No breakfast yet. Back in the truck, the Passenger tidies up the bunk, while the Trucker starts the engine to build up air pressure. The brakes will not release until sufficient pressure has been built up.

In the still morning, a half moon glows from a clear sky. A sprinkling of stars, though most are obscured by light pollution from the truckstop and parking lot. The trucks parked around us are mostly different than they were when we began our night. Some rest quietly. Others, with either engines or generators on, rumble through the night.

Out on I-25, the Trucker points ahead to the left. That long row of lights? Is where we are going. Right at the light, on Sam’s Club Drive. The Trucker stops at the guard house and walks in with his paperwork. Then it is down to the end of the lot, around a corner, and park at a staging area. Wait ten minutes, and enter the building to receive a dock door number.

But this lot! Easily more than half a mile long, acres of pavement. Double rows of loaded WalMart Trailers, hundreds of them. Several WalMart tractors cruise slowly along, reading the seven digit number stamped on the front of each trailer, searching for their assigned load for the day. Around the corner, another double row of trailers, with more tractors searching among them. And this is just one side of the building!

This distribution center was built in 1990, and has 1,0780,000 square feet under roof, with conveyor belt lengths measured in miles.  A marvelous place this would be for a good brisk walk while waiting. The Passenger would love to walk, and count the trailers in just one row, to estimate how many total. But alas, safety regulations prohibit “non-essential personnel” from strolling the lot.

Parking at the staging area, the Trucker waits ten minutes as instructed, then enters the building. The lady behind the counter pulls a pager from a machine, and hands it to the Trucker. Back into dock door 192 (that’s near the corner; 194 doors on just one side of the building), drop the trailer, circle around, and park the tractor back in the staging area. Space between the trailers already dropped seems impossibly narrow, but the Trucker manages just fine. And trailers must be dropped to cancel the risk of miscommunication that might cause a driver to pull away from the dock while warehouse employees are still in the trailer.

Light begins to show in the east, behind a bank of clouds gliding across the sky. All is amazingly quiet here, but for the distant rumble of a truck not yet unhooked at the dock, and a yard truck zipping round behind the building.  41 degrees.  The truck is chilly.  

Two tractors have joined us at the staging area. An unmarked Peterbuilt, and a Freightliner from Thunder Express, Inc. Down the line is another from BM Trucking, El Paso, Texas. Hmmm, couldn’t they have been a bit more creative with that name?

A bit less than an hour, and the pager goes off.  Lights flash, and a computerized voice gives instructions.  Repeatedly, until picked up and shut off.  In the small alcove at the building's corner, the cheery receptionist hands the Trucker his bills, and explains that because he has a drop for another warehouse yet on his trailer, he will need to re-hook, pull his trailer forward, close the doors, and wait til she comes out to place a load lock on the trailer doors.  This is required to get out of the gate. 

Full daylight has come.  A stiff breeze blows from the east.  A brilliant white, newly risen sun burns through the eastern cloud cover.  High overhead, the half moon still glows, diminished now by the strength of the sun.

A short wait for the load lock, through the lot, 

to the guard house to show papers again.  

The Trucker updates his logbook as the morning sun shines onto the bills and shadows his face.

The Passenger notes now that the whole facility is surrounded by a high chain link fence, topped with three strands of outward facing barbed wire.  The city is spread out in all directions, encircled by distant mountains.  "As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the LORD is round about His people..." comes to mind.  The LORD is here, even in the dry brown of Loveland, Colorado in March.

Back onto I-25, picking up speed, and a pleasant breeze blowing in the open window.  42 degrees, and on to the last stop in Tracy, California!

A Memory from the Trucker: Laramie, Wyoming

The wide open spaces of Wyoming. 

Sometimes when I drive across here I think about one of the last trips I made, running with my dad. I was 18, and had about 9 months of driving, doing local work, behind me. So it was one of the first trips where I felt like I was more than just a passenger. I did my share of driving. 

When we were leaving Laramie, I got behind the wheel. Now a few months before, they had just put together a glider kit for dad. The transmission setup was a six and a four, turning 3.90 gears. The national speed limit was still 55mph. 

Before dad went back and laid down in the bunk, he told me, "Don't put both transmissions in overdrive." As I was driving along, I soon found the old Cummins motor turning around 2000 rpms. Soon a head came out of the bunk, telling me, "Don't rev it so high." I backed off the throttle and slowed down immediately. But soon the rpms were creeping up again. Not sure which rule to obey, I reached over and put the other transmission in high gear. 

A little while later, Dad came out of the bunk and sat in the passenger seat. He didn't say anything for about 15 minutes. Finally, "I thought I told you not to put them both in high gear." I slowed down and downshifted one of them. That was all that was said. 

A few months after that, I would buy my own truck. Although we ran together numerous times, we only ever made a trip in the same truck one more time. But that was years later and is another story altogether.

Things I Learn: DEF

March 8, 2018

A short stop just east of Lincoln, Nebraska. Palmyra, at Casey’s General Store. The tall sign by the highway advertized DEF. What is that? The Trucker explained.

DEF stands for Diesel Exhaust Fluid. The newer trucks on the road today are equipped with a DPF, a Diesel Particulate Filter. It catches particles in the exhaust. Regulations require the new diesel motors not release into the atmosphere particles above a certain size. These particles must be caught in a filter. The filter, then, becomes clogged. The DEF is sprayed into the DPF, and ignited by an piece called an igniter, which is similar to a spark plug. It burns at a very high heat, reducing the particles to a fine ash, which is then released with the exhaust.

On the engine side of the DPF, a pressure switch monitors the level of back pressure on the engine caused by the amount of particles clogging the DPF. When it reaches a certain level, the process of burning out the filter begins. Some trucks have a manual control operated at will by the driver, but all do this automatically.

If you are ever around a newer truck, which suddenly begins pouring out clouds of black smoke, with a sharp, acrid, oily smell, the particulate filter is being burned off.

Just another little addition dreamed up by someone at a desk!

An interesting side note: DEF is known to farmers by another name, urea. Urea is spread on fields as a solid fertilizer. The environmental grade urea, known as DEF, is liquid, comprised of 67.5% deionized water, and 32.5% high grade environmental urea (which is a mix of synthetic ammonia joined to carbon dioxide at a high heat).

The Shelf

It had been a non-stop day and a half.  This was the Passenger's week to accompany the Trucker.  The list of tasks to accomplish before leaving seemed a high mountain to climb.  Then came the phone call.  The load has changed.  Can you be ready to leave a day early?  Like tomorrow noon?  Yikes.  And by the way, with the storm coming, maybe we'd better leave early tomorrow morning?  Oh me.

So, no rest in the day, which was long on  both ends.  And the to-do list was rearranged - only the most necessary floated to the top.

Wednesday morning, 8:45AM.  The truck and loaded trailer had been left at the shop, from which the turnpike is a short hop, as a precautionary measure, in the event of serious snow.   Fluffy flakes floated thickly down, though warm ground temperatures prevented their accumulation.  Only the trees captured their loveliness.

Luggage, briefcase, food, sheets, blankets, were hastily unloaded and dumped on the bunk's mattress.  Flipping a switch to shed light on the situation yielded up nothing.  Ah, but the Trucker is capable of managing any emergency.  A spare switch procured from the toolbox, the dash cover unscrewed and dropped forward, and an efficient repair was completed in minutes.

Meanwhile, the Passenger worked on restoring order to chaos.  Food in the fridge and cupboard.  Pillows encased and dropped with their blankets on the passenger seat.  Briefcase behind the Passenger's seat, duffles under the bed by the crate of water, computer bag under the dash.  Amazing how much can be organized into a small space.

Having cleared the mattress, the Passenger now worked on making up the bed.  The Trucker usually does this, as he has more strength and longer arms.  Ever try to make up a bed while you are sitting on it?  

Finally, all was complete.  Except for the heavy coats and the bag of in-case-of-a-winter-storm clothes, to be stacked on the top shelf above the closet, which is behind the Trucker's seat.

The shelf.  Roughly 20 x 20 inches.  Suddenly a memory surfaced, and tears misted my eyes.  In my mind, I am back in early 1993.  (When the Trucker and I married in late 1990, he honored me by switching to local delivery work.  This was followed by short stints for local trucking companies.  We became parents in the waning days of 1992, and by the dawn of 1993, the Trucker was back to running the west coast.)

Before each trip, I would ride with the Trucker to the shop in order to clean the cab and bunk for him.  Carrying my baby in a sling, I would nurse him asleep, then slip out of the sling and lay my slumbering bundle on that top shelf while I wiped down the cab and the bunk.  He fitted perfectly, blanketed by the sling, and the padded rim of the shelf held him securely.  Can it be 25 years have gone by?  That cuddly newborn on the shelf is now a muscular six feet tall, and a Godly husband to our dear daughter-in-law.

The passing of time brings change.  Every change involves a measure of grief, as the old is abandoned to make way for new.  But as most do, this change has ultimately brought joy.  The Trucker and I look on with parental pride at the firstborn son God has given us, knowing that He who has begun a good work will carry it to completion in Christ Jesus.  We rest in that promise. 

And the shelf of the 96 Kenworth W900L no longer holds anything so valuable as that shelf in the 87 Kenworth T600 once did, but stands as a silent reminder of days gone by, and promises being fulfilled.