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....