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.