From The Trucker: So, It's Time to Go

There sits the truck, loaded and ready to go. 

I wish the driver was. 

Trying to plan around different events left me just a few days at home this week. I thought I would have a passenger this week but that didn't work out. 

Events from 2 years ago are weighing heavily on my mind. But I agreed to take the load. Financially it could be the best round of the year. 

I will spend a good time with other drivers in Indiana next Saturday. 

So it's time to go. Hopefully the sounds of the road and the act of getting the job done will lift my spirits as they often do. 

So for now I'll start west. Off to California this time.

Clair Zimmerman Go with courage my son, your Dad would say!!!

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Ron Weaver Thanks Clair. It seems I lost him when I needed him most. A situation I've been dealing with the last 2 years I wish I could talk to both my parents. But I know dad would say keep going till you absolutely can't go anymore.

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Larry Vanlandingham Truckem safe

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Larry Olsen I'm finding out these kinds of situations also Ron now that I'm on the road full time. Work the freight lanes to make it home in time for an event on a particular weekend only to miss out on something else two weekends later because I've been home far too long enough already. But it's the life I chose.

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Jim Martin Praying for you Ron keep your head up 👍

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Elmer Nolt Praying for you and is it two years already

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Ron Weaver For dad it was 2 years this week that he was diagnosed.

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Tim Frey Ron , remember God will watch over you and protect you . Safe trucking my friend !!

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Janet Beiler Miller Praying for you, Ron Weaver, Mary Miller, and your sisters as they think back two years. Call on Jesus’ name and He will hear your cries.

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Ron Weaver Thanks Janet.

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Nancy Weaver Understand, Ron. In some ways this year seems harder than last. Praying.

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Clair Zimmerman Praying for you Nancy!!

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Nancy Weaver Thank you.

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Frosty's Midnight Banquet

Tuesday was a corn day. The kind of day you are glad to see, and glad to see the end of. This year's yield has been less than stellar, due mostly to lack of rain at the right time.

Tallying the results left me feeling there should have been more boxes for the freezer. I even went out and looked down each row - was there a crate that I had overlooked? Not that I could see.

Today, after waving the Trucker up the road, I bit back more emotion than usual as I tackled the corn patch for a "cleanup" picking. In the very center, a black crate, half full of large green ears of corn. In the shadows, I had missed it on Tuesday! I admit to shedding a few more tears, these of anger and frustration. The other half of the crate's erstwhile contents were strewn around, all with the husks pulled back and the juicy kernels chewed away.  Someone had sat himself right down by the crate and had himself a banquet.

In retrospect, though, it would have been worth the loss to see the masked bandit trundling along my garden rows in the dead of night, and happening upon that abandoned crate. How "Frosty's" sparkly black eyes must have glowed, and that impish grin widened even more at the feast I so thoughtfully left in the seclusion of the center corn row! What a party he must have had! Not a total loss then, and Dusty the pony will certainly relish the remains. Not to mention the nanny who has tried everyone's patience severely since her arrival.

Me? I'm off to process the last picking. And yes, this time I checked every row thoroughly. "Frosty" will be working a little harder for his midnight repasts from now on!

(The origin behind the name Frosty comes from the book Frosty:  A Raccoon to Remember by Harriet Weaver.  Ms. Weaver was a park ranger in the Redwood Forests of California who adopted an orphan raccoon.  The ensuing adventures kept our children and ourselves in giggles as we enjoyed the book together years ago.  The book is still available on Amazon.  I highly recommend it.)

El Toro, the Charging Bull, and the Question of Who Really Won

The Toro and I had a difference of opinion today.  It was a question of who was more bull headed.  I won.  At first.  But then, I realized  it had a point.  A valid one.  So, it won.  And yet, I still did.

Let me explain.

The characters in this story?  Me, sunburned and sweaty and just wanting to get 'er done.  The lawn, or should I say hayfield?  Overgrown and shaggy, the product of recent abundant rains and stifling humidity.  And the Toro.  That sturdy, little red riding mower, generously offered by Daddy when our John Deere resigned without notice.

Given the aforementioned weather, the grass was wet within and without.  But mowing had to be done.  This lovely thick grass would provide clippings which would be a marvelous deterrent to the weed growth in my garden.  And wet grass clippings left on the lawn tend to cling to feet, only to drop off when carried by those feet into house and elsewhere.

The Trucker gassed up the Toro, installed the apparatus that blew grass clippings back into the bags, kissed his erstwhile Passenger goodbye, and roared off to collect a load of Halloween candy for Modesto, California.

The Passenger mounted her Toro, and charged across the lawn.  More or less.  Mostly less.  

Shortly a grating, grinding noise was heard from beneath el Toro, and clumps of wet grass began to show under the tires.  A clog.  

We stopped, and I detached the pipe and cleared the clog.  This process was repeated enough times to confirm the fact that collecting grass for the garden was not going to happen.  Sigh.  

Removing the pipe, and trotting to the garage for a tarp strap to raise the mower shield enough to allow grass to escape (because I am a Trucker's wife*) took even more time.  Finally, el Toro charged again.  The grass was cut, and blown across the lawn.  Success!  Mostly.   

As mentioned before, mowing is a good time for thinking.  And I thought about my goal for the afternoon.  To mow the lawn and spread the clippings on the garden.  The Toro had no thoughts, being an inanimate object.  But it still communicated what was possible -  cutting the grass, and what was impossible - blowing it into the bag.  Both of us had very good reasons for what we were attempting.

This is true of people as well, relating to each other.  We may, and often do, have very different ideas, which seem perfectly legitimate to ourselves.  But to those who do not understand our reasoning, they make no sense at all.  The lack of understanding can cause great damage.

It helps to remember that everyone has a perfectly good reason for what they do and say.  The necessary ingredient for a successful outcome?  Communication.  Plain and simple.

So, el Toro, had a valid point:  the grass was too wet to blow.  I had a valid point:  the lawn needed mowed.  The middle ground?  I released the demand of bagging the grass.  El Toro released the right to clog.  And the job got done.

Simplistic example, I know.  But all our human conflicts have an easily accessible solution, if we but communicate our reasons and goals.  The only decision needed beyond preferences is right vs. wrong according to Scripture.


*(The first time I mowed without the bagger, Daddy appeared with a thin wire, to hold the shield higher, allowing the grass to spread more freely rather than clump on the lawn.  I appreciated his thoughtfulness!

Mentioning that at the dinner table had DS#1's eye glinting in remembrance.  "Yep, Grandpa always did that for me too!"

DS#2's response?  "Hey mom, you're a Trucker's wife!  Don't you know you are supposed to use a tarp strap instead?"  Hah. Whatever works at the time, Son.)

This is My Heritage

And then, as the catfood container was empty and the cats appealed for sympathy - it apparently is too warm to go mousing - I hauled myself to downtown Goodville and our local mini-grocery.

While I was filling our needs from the shelves in blessed coolness, a man entered, clad in working habiliments. He selected canning lids, sugar, and spices.

The checkout clerk greeted him with, "Ach, so it gifs pickles!"

"Yah," he responded.

This is my heritage. For better or bitter, I am "home" here.

(And I've got cucumbers of my own, waiting to be pickled!)

When I Grow Up

The Trucker and I were outdoors today, doing yardwork ahead of the the latest multi-colored threat/blessing on the weather radar. I was distracted by explosions of mirth next door. High pitched giggles, squeals, and deep chuckles.

Our newly retired neighbor was teaching his helmeted great-grandson the fine art of maneuvering a tricycle down the driveway, and guarding him from scooting onto the street.

For years now, our neighbor and his wife have devoted their time to caring for great-grandchildren - their own family "daycare," as opposed to seeing the children in a standard daycare situation. Investing time and energy, when it could be said they have earned the "right" to relax on easy chairs.

I want to be like them when I grow up.

Holding My Children in My Heart

A mother carries her child within her body from conception to birth, approximately nine months.  The most intimate relationship.

I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Marvelous are Your works,
And that my soul knows very well.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, 

when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Psalm 139:14-15

The child's survival depends on nourishment and protection the mother's body provides.  It is the picture of man's relationship with God the Creator.  As the child within its mother, man is totally dependent upon God.  And often totally unaware of how vulnerable he is.

Then the child is born.  Expelled kicking and screaming into a world previously unknown, except for sounds that could be heard pre-birth.  Yet there is still complete dependence on the mother for care, protection, and nourishment.  The bond becomes interdependent; mother's body needs the child nearly as much as the child's body needs the mother.

Life becomes a gradual letting go for the mother, and a gradual independence for the child.  As it should be.  Parenthood is working oneself out of a job.  There comes a time when the child is completely independent, except for the spiritual protection provided by the parents' prayers, and the loving, respectful relationship to last a lifetime.

When that bond is broken unnaturally, at any stage of a child/parent relationship, there is trauma, grief, loss.  Healing is brought about only by mutual effort and understanding.  When that mutual effort and understanding is absent, emotional and physical pain and loss continues. 

Months ago, grieving the loss of and disconnect from my daughters, I stumbled across an article that was a strange comfort.  I don't have that article anymore, but it began my research into something I had never known to exist.

At conception, when that first cell divides into two, one of those cells is destined to become an eternal human life, the other a placenta, an organ designed to nourish the baby till birth.  The placenta  manages to invade the wall of the womb without setting off an autoimmune response in the mother.  From about six weeks into the pregnancy til birth, the placenta facilitates an exchange of nutrients and waste products between the blood of the mother and the blood of the developing baby.  The two different bloods never mix and mingle.  The placenta takes over the function of all the baby's organs except its heart, until birth.

What I did not know was that some (most likely stem) cells from the baby also pass through the placenta into the mother's blood stream, along with waste products.  These cells are then carried to various points in her body.  Those that integrate into the mother's tissues are able to evade her immune system, and lodge there more or less permanently.  

This is called microchimerism.  Cells from two separate and distinctly different organisms that are residing in one body.  

Studies have also shown that in times of illness or injury in the mother's body, these cells may migrate to the affected area, and take on characteristics of cells in that tissue, thus assisting in the healing process.  For this reason, they are believed to be stem cells.

In plain words, a mother lives the rest of her life with cells that contain DNA from each child she has conceived still in her body.  A mother literally holds her children in her heart for life.  (And in other places)  The bond between a mother and her children is not only mental or emotional, but is actually physical.  All those sappy Mother's Day cards got one thing right, at least.

I found this intriguing, and oddly reassuring.  In this season of letting go, a normal, gradual release for some, and for others an abrupt, painful tearing away, there is grief and loss.  But even the prodigals, for whom I long, for whom I weep, have a remnant still with me.  That fact is a treasure.

But I ache for those lost ones.  To hold them in my arms as well as in my heart.  To look into their eyes and see those eyes clear and responsive, rather than dark and wary.

Daughter,

I still hold you.

It's with my heart.

But I still hold you

Just as tightly.

Daughter,

I still guard you.

It's with my prayers.

But I still guard you

Through the night.

Daughter,

I still love you.

It's what I do.

I still love you with

All my might.