What If?

No one enjoys suffering.  No one likes when plans go awry, when mistakes happen, when injuries occur.  The first instinct is always to find a reason, look for a solution.  How to restore order and comfort and control to our lives.

What if we considered....that God may have a hand in this?  That He orders our lives and controls our circumstances?

What if we realized our "go-to" attitude was prejudicial in nature?  Shaped by our culture, maybe, or our own selfishness?  

Those with financial difficulties - they mismanage their money.

Those parents with a prodigal child - they didn't train their children properly, were uncaring, indifferent, disciplined too harshly, or worse.

Those that suffer from depression or mental illness - if they'd only try, they could snap out of it.

Those overwhelmed with large families - they were irresponsible, they asked for it, now it's their problem.

Those who have ongoing physical illness - if they had cared for their bodies better, this wouldn't be happening.

Those struggling with the effects of trauma - if they would truly forgive and forget, it would all go away and everything would be fine.

Do we hear ourselves?  What are we really saying?  That we control our lives, our circumstances?  That it all depends on us?

So where is God in all this?  Are we leaving room for Him?

Yes, God has set up natural laws that govern our world.  And spiritual laws for our good.  There is such a thing as cause and effect.   But that aside, have we ever considered that God also arranges our lives to shape us, for His glory?  We are His image bearers.  Shouldn't our response to suffering reflect Him?

I believe God ordains suffering to refine us.  To teach dependence on Him.  Not only for our own good, but for those around us as well.  Easy to say, a pat answer.  Infinitely more difficult to live out.

What if the suffering we are experiencing IS ordained of God?  Are we willing to learn the lesson He wishes us to learn?  Are we willing to come alongside others who are suffering and sacrificially walk with them, begin open to whatever lesson God has for us as well?

And what if the suffering we are experiencing doesn't end?  What if, despite all attempts to fix the problem, it goes on and on, with no resolution in sight?  What if comfort and happiness is an elusive dream?  

Joni Eareckson Tada reminds us, "There is virtue in suffering.  We are not entitled to a perfect, pain free life.  When inconvenience or pain, especially pain, encroach on our life, we start to despair."

And seeking a solution, a cure, a reconciliation, is not wrong.  In fact we are commanded to do so.  But in the process, remember Who is in control.  It's not about us.  

All of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because,

“God opposes the proud

    but shows favor to the humble.”[a]

6 Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 7 Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

8 Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. 9 Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.

10 And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. 11 To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen.

I Peter 5:5-10

Hey, It's Snowing!

Sunday morning.  The Passenger was up early, to prepare this household's traditional Thanksgiving feast for those who remain.  She was having a hard time feeling thankful.  Actually, she would be glad to skip the next six weeks or so and land right in January.  Rather than a celebration, holidays magnify the loss felt every day of the year.

But guilt swam around in her brain as well.  While she assembled lunch dishes in the kitchen, she made conscious effort to list things for which to be thankful.  Emotionally exhausting, but necessary, it was.  This tension between allowing grief its due and the need to count her blessings for the good of her spirit, was ever present. 

Hours later, the Trucker sat by, waiting for the last minute touches to be completed.  Randomly, he checked facebook. 

Hey, it's snowing in __________, he said.  I'm jealous, she said.  In her heart, Lord, I would so love to see snow, she said.

And then they were off.  To join a crowd of worshipers on this damp and rainy November morning.

Midway through the service, from their spot near the end of a bench, the Trucker tapped her arm and gestured discreetly toward the window a few feet away.

Snow.  Large, moist flakes mingled with the rain.  White, fluffy answers to the longing in her heart.  Large, moist tears mingled with the song on her lips, blurring her vision and her voice.

Such a simple thing.  But such an evidence of care from the Creator.  She whispered in the Trucker's ear, Could you snap a few photos with no one noticing?  Smiling, he shook his head slightly.  She understood.  Sometimes celebrating God's answers would be a distraction to the worship of others.

To her left, a small boy with more wiggles than his body could contain.  Standing on the bench beside his father to see over the heads of other singers, the snow reached his field of vision.

"Hey, it's SNOWING!"  His spontaneous exclamation rolled across the sanctuary.  Heads turned.  Smiles broke out.  Was it her imagination, or did their expressions of worship and thankfulness gain a bit of momentum?

The rain eased away, and the snow intensified.  The service proceeded decently and in order.  They needed to leave, then, earlier than most.  Driving away, the Trucker handed her his phone.  On it, photos of the snow falling outside the window, after all.

He understood her unspoken desire.  Snow was such a small thing, really.  And it could be argued that the storm, moving eastward, would just naturally reach them, regardless.  But only He controlled the temperatures, the winds.  And He heard the cry of her heart.

Such a simple thing, really.  For the God of the universe to hear, to reach down with His finger.  To whisper into her heart.  I AM here.  I AM still here.

And in that, she rests.

Reunited, and It Feels So Good

Could it really be two years ago, when the Trucker and I made a cross country trip to bring him home?

At the beginning, the time seemed never ending.  Three months, a quick week home, then six months.  Then one more month.

Now the long awaited time had indeed come.  They had driven cross country, gotten settled in a motel room.  The class was to be meeting til late afternoon.  Then there would be time to go out for a quick supper with him before the evening commissioning service.

What would their son be like after the term?  More independent, certainly.  How would the time away have changed his thinking?  Things would never be the same as before, but would he return home with them to live, or move on from here?  He was still so young.

They drove to town, parked across the street from the church.  And waited, debating entering or waiting outside.  Everything in them pulled to go inside.  But they didn't know where the class was meeting, and couldn't interrupt.  The text came; class was delayed, would run later.  Sigh.

At long last, the church doors opened.  A team member came out.  Then another.  One by one, they filed out and clustered on the sidewalk, smiling.  Where was their son?

They stepped out of the truck, waiting.  Then he appeared in the doorway, eyes scanning the street.  Taller he was, and broader.  Yet his face had a lean, almost dark, look.  Shadows in his eyes that had not been there before.  

She slipped into the street, then, and ran, her eyes on his face.  Tears came, blinding her sight.  The sense of hearing took over.  She heard his boots, those cowboy boots they had dropped off in July, pounding the sidewalk.

And then she was in his arms, weeping, her head pressed into his chest, glasses digging into her face.  His muscular arms held her in a desperate grip, his shaggy head bowed over hers.  The father's arms circled them both, a quiet, secure comfort.  Unseen, the Father was there surrounding all with his soothing, healing presence.

She could hear his heart thudding under her ear.  His chest heaved. Groans jerked from his throat.  Was it laughter?  Or sobs? Maybe both.  Drops of moisture fell on her head, soaking her hair.  A rain of love, washing away the pain and loss, the separation of the months.  His team on the sidewalk cheered, and then fell silent in respect.  Wiping their own tears.

Their reunions would come later.  For now, they cherished his.  The lighthearted banter, joking over his impatience to see his parents, the knowing they were near but he was not yet released, faded away.  All realized anew the depth of love, the pain of separation.

Because phone calls, even video chats, are never completely honest.  Often, there was so much concern for the other as to deny their own longings, and the true struggles never found voice. 

Finally, to see with one's own eyes the other, was intense relief.  Words and sharing would come over time.  For now, the baptism of tears was enough.

Mr. Snake Pays a Visit

The Trucker and his erstwhile Passenger have had a small home improvement project going on lately.  Her parents, due to a remodel project, were disposing of a set of kitchen cabinets.

Knowing it had been her dream for many years, the Trucker offered to install the sink and surrounding cabinets in their finished basement.  No one lives down there now, but maybe someday.  And it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

DS#1 obtained a free pump, and brought it and his plumbing skills.  The Trucker managed the electrical work.  Slowly, and only flipped the breaker once.

Today was the first large block of time the Passenger had to tidy up and clean the finished project.  She loaded her arms with supplies, and headed downstairs.

As her foot was reaching for the floor below the bottom step, she glanced down.  

And saw this:

Apologies for the blurry photo.  Her hands may or may not have been shaking.  She's not afraid of snakes, really, but they move quickly, and she didn't quite want to be wondering where he would show up next.

Rather lethargic, he seemed, and offered no resistance to being swept into an empty trash can.  She carried the can outside, and set it down to take another photo.  

And texted it to a friend.  "I had a moment of aerobic exercise today!"

Her response, "He's cute!  Is that his best side?"  She's not rattled by much, is she?

Conveying the snake via trash can out to the woodpile, she dumped it, intending another photo, with a steadier hand this time.  But when Mr. Snake hit the ground, he was inspired. He shot into that wood pile and disappeared instantly.

Oh well.

Shortly thereafter, the Trucker, who quite literally has a song for every event or mood, texted her lyrics from Tom T. Hall.

Sneaky Snake

Tom T. Hall

Boys and girls take warning
If you go near the lake
Keep your eyes wide open
And look for sneaky snake

Now, maybe you won't see him
And maybe you won't hear
But he'll sneak up behind you
And drink all your root beer

And then sneak snake goes dancing
Wiggling and a-hissing
Sneaky snake goes dancing
A-giggling and a-kissing
I don't like old sneaky snake
He laughs too much you see
When he goes wiggling through the grass
It tickles his underneath

Well sneaky snake drinks root beer
And he just makes me sick
When he is not dancing
He looks just like stick

Now he doesn't have any arms or legs
You cannot see his ears
And while…

Source: LyricFind

On second thought, maybe I should have kept Mr. Snake in my care for a while.  In about a week, I may have had use for him!

The Orchid, A Gentle Evidence of Caring

"Here are your keys," she said.

"And I left a little something for you on the front seat.  For your birthday."

Oh me.  Birthday was the last thing on my mind.  So very sweet of her!  Such an honor to be remembered!

How is it that those who carry the heaviest burdens, who have the most on their minds, remember others so well?  

Sliding into the driver's seat, I saw

An orchid.

With delicate pink/purple tinted blooms on white.  Attached to a green supporting stake with those cute little "claw" clips I remember using to tame the curls in my daughters'  pretty hair.  The camera doesn't do it justice.  Or my photographic ability.  At all.  Perfect to park by the thoughtful card received yesterday from the same generous friend.

Back in February of 2018, through the generosity of friends, I was able to visit Longwood Gardens.  For the first time in 26 years, I strolled through the lush greenery and displays of every color and design imaginable, and breathed in the oxygen saturated air.  For the first time, orchids were on my radar.  

Beyond lovely, they were.  I didn't attempt photos.  Just soaked them in.  On occasion, then, I would recognize them when I was out and about.  Was often tempted to purchase one.

Two things held me back.  No, three:

The natural resistance to purchasing anything for myself.  

The lack of a green thumb.  

And which color to choose?

Suddenly, the choices were made for me.  An orchid sat on my kitchen table.

Time to brush up on the care and feeding of such.

I learned:

- They are not your typical potted plant.

-  Most orchids are tropical plants which live as "air plants" hanging on to trees for support.

- The orchid gets no nutrients from the tree itself; it is not a parasite, it gets only support.

- Many orchids have to deal with times of abundant water and times of dryness; they have thick stems called "pseudobulbs" that allow them to store and hold water for the dry periods to come.

- Orchids do best in a humid environment, and prefer light from a north or an east facing window.

- Understanding the natural conditions in which the orchid grows, is critical to understanding what the orchid needs for its care.

Alrighty then.  With further instructions on the proper potting mix and watering, I was ready to give this a try.

However, I thought about orchids some more.  Orchids are not unlike me.  

- I am not typical.  I am a unique creation of God.

- I need support.

- There are times of abundance, and times of lack.  Do I store up the Water of Life in order to preserve my life in the dry and desperate times?

- I thrive in the tender Light, not the harsh, wilting glare of pain and loss.

- I am cared for best by those who take time to know the specific nurturing my soul craves.

The delightful truth?  This same Creator Who formed me with His hands, created the orchid too.  If  He cares for the orchid's every need in a variety of environments, will He not also care for me in whatever life brings?  If He displays His creative work in the dependent orchid, it stands to reason that I am also created for a distinctive purpose, secure in His care.

Now, for that east window!

Tender Touches

The Trucker came in today with an armful of Autumn color.  He set the bunch in a large vase with water to await her coming.

Such a generous collection of lovely.  She emptied the water, sorted and trimmed.

When finished, she had a dainty accent for

the office

the kitchen

the bath

A gentle reminder of care in each room.  Of the Creator God who spoke into being this nurturing beauty, and the Trucker Husband who offered it in love.

Sticks, Stones, and Words

The Trucker was home an extra week this time.  Cooler temperatures were wonderful, except for that one unseasonably warm day.  Indoor projects when it rained, outdoors when the sun shone.  The relief of getting items crossed off a list that had been waiting far too long.

But overshadowing the satisfaction of accomplishment, was a heaviness.  Memories of this same week, three years ago.  Somehow the mind, and even the body, do not forget painful anniversaries.  Even if they are not part of conscious thought at all times, the memory is there.

For the Trucker and his Passenger it was the pain of rejection, of betrayal, of loss; hopes and dreams dashed on the rocks of anger, accusation, and animosity.

Schoolchildren learn: "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me."  But words do hurt.  Very much.  They flay like knives, stripping away one's confidence and self worth.

The Passenger had not realized how much the pain of false accusation had shaped her.

Today in the hallway after church, she met a treasured friend. They had not been able to connect for some time.

TREASURED FRIEND:  I was just talking with _________, who mentioned how much help you have been to her lately.  You are such a gift to her at this time.

PASSENGER:  What I do is a drop in the bucket, given the responsibilities she carries.  I so appreciated her trusting me with her children.

TREASURED FRIEND:  Remember the day when we moved?  When you took all my children and cared for them in your home?  You made the same comment to me then, about being trusted.

Gripping the Passenger's hands in hers, eyes streaming with tears, she said urgently:  "Please, please hear me.  You are trustworthy!  You have done no wrong!  What happened was not a result of what you have done; this was done TO you!  It is not your fault.  Do not allow yourself to be held back by a lie from the enemy!"  

And as the now familiar tears carved a path on her own cheeks, she realized she had.  Once again the enemy's lies had begun to creep in and cripple her spirit.  Planting the thought that maybe, just maybe, it WAS her fault.  Maybe they WERE right, she should have...could have...and failed.  And believing again, that she was the cause of others' pain, when in fact, the reverse was true.

God is Omnipotent and Omniscient.  If there was something she could have done, or still should do, is He not able to show her what it is?  In a clear and definite way?

And if He has not done so, then there is nothing held against her.  The slate is clean.  There is no false guilt to be had.  

Colossians 2:13 And you, being dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, He has made alive together with Him, having forgiven you all trespasses, 14 having wiped out the [b]handwriting of requirements that was against us, which was contrary to us. And He has taken it out of the way, having nailed it to the cross. 15 Having disarmed principalities and powers, He made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them in it. 

I cast my mind to Calvary
Where Jesus bled and died for me.
I see His wounds, His hands, His feet.
My Savior on that cursed tree

His body bound and drenched in tears
They laid Him down in Joseph's tomb.
The entrance sealed by heavy stone
Messiah still and all alone

O praise the name of the Lord our God
O praise His name forever more
For endless days we will sing Your praise
Oh Lord, oh Lord our God

Then on the third at break of dawn,
The Son of heaven rose again.
O trampled death where is your sting?
The angels roar for Christ the King

O praise the name of the Lord our God
O praise His name forever more
For endless days we will sing Your praise
Oh Lord, oh Lord our God

He shall return in robes of white,
The blazing Son shall pierce the night.
And I will rise among the saints,
My gaze transfixed on Jesus' face

O praise the name of the Lord our God
O praise His name forever more
For endless days we will sing Your praise
Oh Lord, oh Lord our God

Songwriters: Dean Ussher / Marty Sampson / Benjamin Hastings

There Comes A Time

The day had arrived.  The last day of work in a local office, for the Passenger.  A part time job that in some ways ended too soon, and in some ways not soon enough.  With mixed feelings, she intended to leave quietly, after the last assigned project was completed.

Promptly at 8AM, her coworker, the very patient trainer/supervisor/cleaner-upper-of-mistakes, arrived.  Bearing a gift to go on.

An iced coffee.  At least the Passenger thinks that is the official name of this sugary, caffeinated concoction.  With chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

Now you need to know, that in all of her half century on this earth, the Passenger has never once ingested coffee.  In any form.  She has briefly entertained the idea on numerous occasions.  Especially on long days in front of the screen, or days following the all too frequent sleepless nights.  

But the smell didn't appeal or impress, so why would the taste be palatable?  And to order one these days would appear to require the learning of a whole new language, as well.

But this was a gracious gift.  Offered in friendship.  A perfect opportunity.  How could she refuse!  She didn't.  And so she and an iced coffee settled down at the computer again to list online, of all things, travel mugs.  As she ferreted out information and details, applying them to blanks on the computer program template, a first tentative sip was taken.

Not bad. A tad bitter, yes.  But definitely not a hardship to drink.  Maybe not this gal's first choice of beverage, and most assuredly iced would be preferable to hot.  

Task completed and remaining coffee in hand, she said her goodbyes and punched out her time card for the last time.  Driving home, she mused over the morning's interesting twist and new experience.  How many people (other than the Trucker) can say they tasted their first coffee in all their 53 years?  And did she really and truly dislike coffee, or was it just prejudice?  Which leads to the question, will she order coffee again, on her own?

Rolling up her own driveway, the thought struck.  After a mostly sleepless night, no breakfast, and three hours sitting in front of a screen, she was awake.  Or, as Jeff Foxworthy would say, "She. Was. A-WAKE!"  Really and truly!  No sleepiness, yawning, or difficulty focusing.  When had she last felt like this, except in a crisis situation?

All day and into the night, alertness persisted.  No complaints, just a wry grin.  

Maybe she'll need to try this again.

After all, there are 53 years to make up for.

Random Texts on Summer Day

A warm summer day in August.  The Passenger spent its first eight hours in a windowless, air conditioned office, communing with a keyboard.  Comfortable and enjoyable, but sleep inducing. 

Upon arrival at home, emails needed responded to, which meant more screen time. 

Then, as day waned and the blazing sun began its downward slide, time to hasten to the hens.  "Down the road and down the road she went" as Bunny did in the Little Golden Book.  They would be waiting for their daily release into the meadow, to snip grass blades and clover leaves, and snap beaks at insects on the wing.

Rounding them up into their enclosure for the night, away from hawks, weasels, coons and such, took a bit of persuasion.  Therefore, a treat was in order, to lure them back in more easily.  Having done this the first few times she was brave enough to turn them loose, they now expected the offering of a delicacy as a matter of course.

This time?  Milk on the south end of fresh, absorbed by old bread, flavored with a smidge of salt and pepper.  And a few ripe tomatoes from the volunteer plant that took up residence in the garden.

But first, to unlatch the gate, refill water and feed buckets, gather eggs.  Then putter about the meadow's edge while the cluckers perambulated, conversing among themselves contentedly.

The last few days, she had spent this time pulling tall weeds and tough fall grass away from the barn wall.  A few of the younger hens, rather trusting they seemed to be, had noticed.  Especially noticed that crumbly brown dirt being exposed, and even more especially, bugs and beetles, arachnids and annelids. 

So much so, that now they worried around her ankles, eyeballing her inquiringly, and making pointed application for more of the same.  So much so that every time she reached for a handful of greenery, brown feathered necks and pecking beaks immediately stretched in to participate.  Moving slowly, talking quietly, it was such fun to explore with these fowl friends. 

"...with a cluck-cluck here and a cluck-cluck there, here a cluck, there a cluck..."

By now the Trucker was checking in from points west.

Is the Working Girl back home? he wondered.

Yep, she'd been.  But not at the moment.

Hen-rietta, Harriet, Hattie, Hester, and me are weeding.  Seems it's now my job to unearth crawlies for the ladies....

You could bring them up to help you in the garden, he suggested.

That was the next task on the list.  But no, the feathered folk wouldn't travel well.

I wish!!  Tried to get a photo of a crawlie but SuperBeak here was too fast.  Talk about things that wiggle and jiggle inside her.....

And the Trucker sent back a laughing face emoticon.  He was thinking what she was thinking, the little story book and song that their children had so enjoyed in years gone by.

"There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.

I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider, that wiggled and jiggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.

I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a bird.

She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, she swallowed the spider to catch the fly..."

And so forth.  Well, Hen-rietta had swallowed the fly and the spider, though being a bird herself, that is where the song application stopped.

But apparently she had taken too long with the weeding and texting, as a few hens were beginning to wander back into the enclosure, tip their heads, and point an eyeball at their old-and-as-yet-empty cake pan.  The heads then tipped toward the Source of Treats, and beady eyes studied her while quiet conversations ensued among them.  "Awwwk, waaaaawk, waaaawk...."

As she walked back to the barn door, hens fluttered in from all corners of the meadow, colliding and jostling through the gate to cluster underfoot.  And there was always that one who parked IN the cake pan to get first dibs on the choicest morsels. 

A feast, and surely Hen-rietta is getting a better deal than Harriet....neither can eat without worrying about her neighbor's portion...

Bowl emptied into the pan, she stepped back to count before closing the gate for the night.  She would count heads, or beaks as it were, but none were visible.  Only fluffy bottoms pointing skyward around the aforementioned cake pan.  She would count the part that goes under the fence last instead.

Strutting inefficiently round the perimeter, the white Rooster was engaged in his best FogHorn LegHorn imitation, taking full credit for the repast his hens were enjoying.  Now and then he pinched a morsel for himself, but mostly cared for the advertising department.

"Up the road and up the road she went," to the next responsibility.

Nailed some Lantern Flies.  Now Felinius and me are hacking in the garden.

The summer's experiment was wildflowers sown in a quarter of the area.  Which had grown happily, bloomed, and drooped.  Too well established to pull out, and too sturdy to mow down, they required a scythe to lay them low, and a fire to burn.

Always nice to have help he commented.  

Yep, and with this kind of around-your-ankles "help", a lot of driving he'd get done.  Better steer clear of the scythe if she values that waving appendage called a tail.

Flaming flowers, fussy feline, she texted.

Singed whiskers, he replied.

And she brought in the last bouquet of rescued blooms for the season, to grace the kitchen table.

Now dark already.  Me n the genealogy chart gonna play a lil while the sweat dries.  Then a shower.  You tired of the play by play yet?

Apparently, he wasn't for an hour later came the next query.

How is ya?

Ummm....don't open a can of soup for supper when the cat is listening....

It appears to sound in the feline ear quite the same as a tin of her specialty, much desired but seldom offered.

And then, Sandman wins...G'nite....love you...

And he replied, 40 miles to go before I sleep....love you...

God Does Things Perfectly. Us? Not So Much.

August 16, 2019

We prayed for a load coming out of Chicago area, to deliver in Pennsylvania. And if God willed it so,

- a good paying load

- a “dry” load so the reefer wouldn’t have to run all weekend

- a load that picked up Friday and delivered Monday, reasonably close to home

He answered all the above prayers as we prayed them!

The load was of sea salt, and .7 miles from where we were parked overnight in Northlake.

By the time we got out of the lot and onto the street, the distance was .4 miles. Down the street we went, to the entrance. Where a sign proclaimed “NO Trucks”. Oh. So the Trucker drove on, immediately realizing he’d made a mistake. (The sign was turned, and meant for a different driveway.)  Down the street and down the street we went, though no opportunity to turn the big rig around presented itself.

This means we go around the block. In the city. Past a plethora of dead-end and no-turn-around streets. Suddenly the Trucker spoke urgently. 

HE:  What does that sign say up ahead?!?

ME: Which of the two dozen signs?

HE: There! That one! The height limit one!!

ME: OH! 13’ 8”

HE: Whew!

And we sailed under the low railroad bridge with 2” to spare. Ai-yi-yi.

Til all was said and done, “around the block” added 8 miles to our .7 mile commute. But we are here!

Now there are four trucks ahead of us in line. The Trucker dismounts and enters the warehouse. He returns directly, with a lanyard hanging round his neck, holding a tag displaying the door number at which he was to receive his load. What is he, in kindergarten? Oh well, wearing his number also certifies he is legal to be on the property…

And the lovely thing? His load is waiting round the back of the building, so he can bypass the line and back right up to the door. We blutz over the railroad tracks, he turns the truck around in a tight corner, and backs up to the door.

Interestingly, the railroad tracks cross the lot, and run right up to the building, under the door, and inside. This must be a side track on which they can run cars right into the warehouse and unload, protected from the elements. How nice!

Now, ten minutes until the whole warehouse crew goes on break. Sigh. Will they load us first? We can only hope. (Nope, they didn’t. ‘Nother hour to go, now…) If it wouldn’t have been for that 8 mile tour ‘round town…

Meanwhile, this Passenger will just enjoy the cool breeze and the fact that she is still close enough to O’Hare to watch planes….

Miracle in the Night

Again, the Trucker and I are on the road.  A short run this time, thoughtfully arranged by the Trucker, with his wife in mind.

The last weeks have not been easy.  God had a detour arranged for our family.  More than that, a permanent lifestyle change.  Not what we wanted; in fact, specifically prayed against it often.

But God allowed it.  In this we must rest, knowing that for everything He allows in our lives, He will provide for our needs.  Generally not by preventing the unpleasant, but by walking through the unpleasant with us.

Three nonstop days of appointments, arrangements, added frustrations, and departure time was at hand.  Half an hour early, to be exact.  Fresh off an emergency dental appointment for an infected tooth, the Trucker assured me that he could indeed still eat, though Mother Hubbard's Cupboards were nearly bare, intentionally. 

Slapping together a few grilled cheese with ham sandwiches, and lifting a small bag of chips from the freezer, that extra half hour was filled with a quick but filling meal.  The Trucker winced only once when an errant bite, bit back.  Meanwhile, he was checking the drugs newly obtained from the local pharmacy.  Plenty of water with this one, and don't lie down after ingesting.  OK.  "Can cause drowsiness."  Not OK.  Will work on the timing of this one.

Truck packed, house locked, and the Nephew apprised of the key's location in the interest of gathering mail and seeing to a certain feline's comfort, we were off.

How strange it felt to be riding in the Passenger seat again, though old routines quickly surfaced.  So did a host of flies, having seen open bunk doors earlier in the day as a literal invitation.  At least they are not lantern flies, of which suddenly there are many around the property as well.  Time to break out the sprays again...

Life is full of decisions, the choosing of priorities.  Much as the Passenger felt the pull to remain home and be available to parents and sons, the Trucker must receive priority this week.  A short but good haul to Chicago, then time with friends with whom his Passenger needs to become better acquainted. 

Shortly after dusk had settled into night, rolling westward on Route 80, near Kylerstown, PA, it happened.  A ballgame was filling airwaves inside the truck, along with several incessantly annoying flies.  The Passenger, enabled by her clip-on Mighty Bright Light, was deep into the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745, feeling again the emotions of gallant rebel soldiers as Bonnie Prince Charlie attempted to regain the British Crown for his father, James Edward Francis Stuart.

Abruptly, time appeared in slow motion.  A strangled exclamation from the Trucker, as he came down hard on the brakes.  The truck lurched, and cut sharply into the right lane and onto the shoulder, as the truck ahead had done moments before.  A dark car hurtled, out of the blackness, eastward in the left westbound lane, where seconds before the Trucker had been motoring along at the posted 70 mph.

Praise God there was no traffic in the right lane when the Trucker needed that space for his rig.  Praise God the road and shoulder were level and the truck did not roll. He and his Passenger paused, listening for the screech of brakes and the shattering of metal and glass behind on the highway.  Nothing but a pulse pounding in their ears, and cheers emanating from the radio as the Phillies trounced the Cubs, adding a fourth inning grand slam to an already lopsided score.  Slowly, traffic resumed.

What of the wrong way driver at night?  Did he or she innocently make a wrong turn?  Hardly.  Was their mind impaired by drugs, alcohol, or illness?  Our minds turned to the "what if" this had been a re-run of last summer, and the financial setback of another accident which insurance didn't begin to cover, let along the physical and emotional toll.  Not to mention the horrible risk to life and limb.

Thank you Lord, for sparing us this time.  

How is it that we give God credit when we are saved, when things go our way?  Yet when things go wrong, we question His goodness?  

"Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?”  Job 2:10

And may we never sin with our lips as Job was credited, either by spoken word, or unspoken when it should have been.

Be A Chicken. Save Your Feathers.

It was a sun drenched Sunday morning.  The glowing orb in the east was already well started  on its day's march through the sky, drilling rays of light down upon the meadow, creek, and barn, promising a toasty day.

Hearing  a vehicle rolling in the lane, chickens were  gathering round their door, discussing what delicacy the human would be bringing today in exchange for their eggs.  Aged lasagna that survived the trucker's most recent west coast trip?  Baked oatmeal that likewise no longer held human appeal?  Watermelon rinds with a bit of red left upon them?  Maybe even fuzzy blueberries.

The white feathered rooster strutted among them, saying nonsensical things, just making enough noise to remind all hearers he was there and in charge and most definitely not accepting any challenges.

Abruptly, he interrupted his monologue with a warning deep in his throat.  The sense of urgency it conveyed was not in doubt, at all.  All  twenty-one hens (one was already on the nest) instantly dived for the small doorway leading into their section of the barn.  Two at a time jamming the doorway, some flapping beak first into the wall, squawking mindless frightened warnings of their own.

There were no questions, no hesitations, no backward glances.  The rooster has warned; we go first and learn details later.

The human stopped, shading her eyes against the brilliant rays, looking eastward and down the small hill.  A cluster of trees, among them one mostly dead, its bare limbs reaching to the sky like scrawny claws.  At the very top, a motionless shape, silhouetted black and menacing against the morning sky.  Was it a hawk?  An eagle?  No white head, so a hawk it is.

The rooster had known he was there.  Did he see, or just sense the presence?  Did he not understand he and his ladies were safe within their wire enclosure?  Still, the alarm sounded automatically, instinctively.

And then a shift of the dark bird's perch, morning breeze ruffling feathers.  An eerie scream ripped into the calm of the morning.  A harsh call echoing round the meadow, scraping its way out of the bird's throat.  This should spark terror into the heart of any feathered folk.

This time though, no response from the hens.  Or the rooster.  Surely they heard.  Is not this scream much more inspiring of fear than the rooster's warning?

She pondered this as she flicked a dish of scraps into the enclosure for the hens to dive after, then discuss contentedly as they digested.  She thought of the rooster's role in the flock as she refilled water buckets and gathered eggs contributed by the early risers.

The hens are not conditioned to look out for their own safety.  To scratch and peck, to compete for choice morsels, yes.  To lay an egg every day.  But the rooster, for all his preening and posing, was the guardian.  His eye was turned toward the hill, the tree, where the hawk found his vantage point.  

It wasn't noise and screaming that caused his fear and his flock's run for safety.  It was the silence, the shadow, the stealthy darkness against a bright morning sky.  The instinctive knowing when time was ripe for danger.  

The hens didn't need to know that.  They only needed to understand one thing - respond without question to the rooster's throaty warning for safety.    That was enough.