Remember in the Dark, What Was Visible in the Light

Remember in the Dark, What was Visible in the Light

December 12, 2017

A relatively quiet night, rolling west on I-80, 50 miles east of Council Bluffs, Iowa. Wind buffets the truck, dropping fuel mileage enough to add an unplanned stop. “Just a splash of fuel,” the Trucker said, “To tide us over to Lincoln.” The truck sways, fighting the pressure. Temperature stands at 28 degrees, down 4 in the last few minutes. Engine noise competes with the rushing of wind.

But the most significant sense is darkness. Black dark. Tonight it seems more than just the absence of light, but a presence. Were it not for the occasional white headlights of eastbound trucks, and red lights of those westward, the only lights would be our own. Such a lonely feeling. An all-by-myself-in-the-world sensation. Dark makes one vulnerable. The inability to see one’s path, or what may be nearby, can be crippling. Dark is a negative thing. Associated with fear and loss and insecurity.

Yet ahead, a curved row of red lights glow in the sky, slowly blinking. Not moving. We know they mark the rotating wind turbines spread out over the prairies. Faithfully turning to provide power. Regulated, so that even in a night of wintry blasts they are held from spinning out of control and causing great damage. Incredible power, these turbines. The secret of their power is the controlled setting in which they operate, no matter the pressure exerted by their surroundings. I do not need to see the windmills to know they are there. I just need to remember in the dark, what was visible in the light.

I think of the chariots and horses of fire that surrounded the city of Dothan, protection sent for the man of God, Elisha. Things looked dark for him, a hunted man. Yet that darkness was what brought the vision of fiery warriors. Darkness enabled me to see the flashing lights on the windmills, lights unnoticed in daylight.

Darkness has become a familiar enemy, representing confusion, loss, grief, pain. Pain so heavy, it is unable to be contained in the emotions, but overspreads to the physical. One by one, the lights of hope have been snuffed out, til few are left. I pray for God to open our eyes, that we may see the chariots and horses of fire, but that has not yet happened. For now, we struggle to remember in the dark, what was visible in the light.

I think of the turbines. Even though they are wind driven, they do not take advantage of the wildness of this night. Despite their potential, they continue the steady pace set for them. A pace appropriate for the needs they supply. Designed to rotate at 14.4rpm, the blade tips then are moving at 200mph. Turbines will ride out tornado force winds with no damage, no spinning out of control. But a malfunction in their machinery or settings, and they literally destroy themselves, and anything in the vicinity. When reaching 18rpm, they will do just that, as happened in Huron, Michigan in February, 2016. “It was there, we just didn’t see it,” according to the wind farm manager. One of three seals failed, putting added stress on the others. And 1.5 million dollars’ worth of equipment crashed to the ground, self destructed.

God has set a pace and a parameter in which I am to serve Him. Guidelines, for my protection. The difference between me and the wind turbines, though, is that I have a choice. I can choose to take on the pressure exerted by my surroundings, go my own way. He allows that. But eventually I will self destruct, taking others with me. Or, I can choose to operate under His control, trusting Him to set the pace of my rotations and the sphere of my influence. This choice provides protection for me, and all within my reach.

Topping a slight rise on the prairie, we see the lights of Omaha spread out ahead, sprinkling the darkness with perspective, guiding travelers toward their destinations. The truck rolls on through the black night, while we remember in the dark, what was visible in the light.

The Dakota Prairies

The Dakota Prairies

October 25, 2017

Route 2 in Minnesota. It’s getting on toward lunchtime, according to our internal clocks. The Trucker consults our GPS. The next small town has several options: The Pita Pit, The Toasted Frog, or the Drunken Noodle. I kid you not. Now for one whose eyes eat before her stomach, that is an appetite suppressant right there. Hardee’s in the following small town seemed a safer option. We weren’t feeling adventurous today.

Route 2 in North Dakota. The road is mostly flat and straight. The view in every direction is a seemingly endless expanse of dried yellow and brown grasses, waving in the wind. Marching rigidly along the roadside, a single line of poles with outstretched arms supports four power lines. Between the power lines and the road, a Burlington Northwest Railroad track. Sometimes one track, sometimes several. Goofs up my equilibrium a bit to see the moving coal train in my peripheral vision, moving the same direction, yet more slowly.

 In this country of seemingly nothing, it also gives my brain a twist to see a dirt lane branch off to the right, apparently heading nowhere, but sporting an official street sign announcing, “8^th Avenue, NW.”

Ohhh, I could get used to this! Traveling on four wheels instead of 18, an automatic shift instead of a 13 gear manual, makes it legal and possible for me to take the wheel. The Passenger has become the “trucker” and the Trucker is the Passenger. Not quite relaxed, but he is working on it. Maybe he should take up my neglected stitchery?

A flicker of the GPS attracts my attention. Curve warning. Really? If there were “curve warnings” in Lancaster County, there would be no time to communicate anything else! But yes, I see why it happens here. The speed limit is 70. Which for most, means at least ten miles higher. In these surroundings, we seem to be creeping. A few minutes’ inattention to my right foot, and suddenly the needle is inching past 90. Oops. Hmmm….wonder if I could hit 100 before the Trucker noticed?? Better not. If I want to keep on having fun, I’d better not have too much fun.

I have not bothered to adjust the mirrors since switching seats with the Trucker. He will be back in a few hours anyway. The worst part of driving like this is the inability to change positions. Used to being on the move all day long, my joints and muscles are in a state of shock. So, a shift now and then to use the mirrors sets up a compromise with said joints and muscles. It works like this:

- left rear view mirror – sit up a bit straighter, and lean left.

- rear window – sit up straight, look over my right shoulder, past the Trucker’s shirts hanging empty behind me.

- right rear view mirror – lean right, tilt my head, and look past the shirt with the Trucker inside it.

- center rear view mirror – that one I changed. No compromise there.

High overhead, geese wing south in formation. In the roadside marshy areas, little brown ducks paddle in circles. In cultivated areas, mammoth pieces of equipment rest fieldside, or trundle slowly along, partly on the shoulder, partly in the right lane. Some fields are plowed, the upturned soil in black contrast with neighboring browned hay fields, dotted with greenish oversized round bales, left where they dropped months ago.

 Still other fields show golden brown wheat stubble. The air smells of fall bonfires, as periodic pillars of gray smoke boil up from the wheat fields. Writhing under the smoke are orange-red flames, reaching to impressive heights and pushing the smoke above themselves. Controlled burning. I wonder why? What would cause burning to be important enough, now, to risk a wildfire in this dry area?  Weed control, I later learned.  The photo below is very similar to what we saw.

Excepting the fires, the whole region appears to be settled, waiting. The season is about to change. Howling winds and silent snows are on the horizon.

On the outskirts of Minot, North Dakota, a welcome sign. Minot, the Magical City. What makes it magical? Something to research later.

Further in, a concentration of reds and blues have me moving to the right lane. An army convoy of four trucks, red and blue lights flashing through their grills, escorted by eight police cars, lights also flashing and sirens screaming, racing east out of town. Above the convoy, an open sided army helicopter flying fast, soldiers leaning outward, gripping rifles. The chopper’s landing gear skims just above the power lines. High overhead, another camouflaged chopper circles. What would require this? Something I probably cannot research. We see signs at the next exit for the nearby Bismarck Army Base, most likely the source of the convoy.

As the gas gauge is on E, a stop in Minot is in order. In town, I am driving by guesswork, as the GPS screen with the little green car on a blue road is missing from the dash. It is in the Trucker’s hand, and as he flips through the screens, I hear his end of a somewhat exasperated conversation with this bit of technology. He is making up our next destination as we go along, keeping me a bit off balance and needing to prompt him for the next lane change and turn.

 We exit the street at the Shell station, behind a white pickup, barely moving. “C’mon, keep trying, you can do it!” the Trucker implores the hesitating vehicle. I note the elderly driver, obviously taking instructions from his equally elderly wife in the passenger seat. I know how the poor guy feels! :)

Parking at a pump, I slowly ease out of the driver’s seat and down to the parking lot. Times like this I feel the location in my body of every area that was injured/rearranged through the years. Oooooh. Next door to the convenience store is an “XL Wine and Spirits” shop. I tell the Trucker that I will take my spirit into the (Shell) store and walk off the whine. Immersed in gas prices and a balky hose, he doesn’t get it. No matter.

Pacing the store aisles to get the kinks out is usually safer than pacing the parking lot. Apples are $1.69 each, wow. We aren’t THAT far from Washington State! And I brought my own, much larger and sweeter, compliments of the brother-in-law’s tree. Little chicken pies are also $1.69 each, can be opened and microwaved right there in the store and – viola! We have supper! My taste buds are intrigued, but the Trucker doesn’t think so.

 We settle for a pretzel. Two, one liter waters are $3.00. One, one liter is $.99. Hmmm. We get two...and watch at the checkout. Yup, we are charged $1.98 for the two. Nice.

Back on the road again. I shift luggage in the rear seat to unearth my laptop. Ooof. I thought we packed light. Where in the world will we put six feet of Dear Son #2 on the way home?

All That Is In Me

All That Is In Me, All That I Am

October 24, 2017

West on Route 2, on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A dreary, rainy day. The two lane road, sometimes, widening to four, arches around Lake Michigan. Trees line both sides of the road, sometimes thinning on our right so that the vast lake is visible, white capped waves crashing ashore. A wall of wind pushes from the west, causing the truck to sway.

We stopped at a hamburger joint in Manistique for a late lunch. Clyde’s was a small place, in business since 1949, and not a whole lot has changed.

 There was no provision for opening the windows, but I noted old fashioned transoms atop the doors. Likewise, no evident source of heat, save a small EdenPure in one corner. For such a small place, maybe the heat from the grill was sufficient?

 The staff was sweat shirted and casual. The curved counter allowed for six stools. A tiny table in the front corner added two more seats. Perched on stools at the counter, surrounded by locals who welcomed us, but did not include us in conversation, we absorbed the atmosphere.

The topic of the day seemed to be that internet service was down, which took phone service down with it. Hamburgers were hand shaped and generous, fries were real potatoes, freshly cut and fried. Soups, while not on our order, looked just right for a rainy, 40 degree day in October.

Back in the parking lot, the Trucker handed me the keys. Yay! Generally driving isn’t a privilege I would compete for, but here? Sure! Occasional cars, the odd pickup with fenders flapping, log trucks stacked precariously high, their loads leaning in the curves of the road. Those I passed carefully, tempted to think that only my desperate prayer kept them from toppling onto our four wheels. The spray from the big trucks, combined with rain, was my incentive to pass. Out in front, the view is much clearer. Here, 75 mph into the wind seems like we are creeping.

Our noses detect the local paper mill, before we see the road where all the log trucks turn off. The Trucker reminisces about the load he picked up there a few years ago, when the lady in charge made things impossibly difficult for him, just because she could, and bound by the union, her supervisor could do nothing to help. Memories.

Farther on, snowflakes mix with the rain, splatting frosty designs onto the windshield just before melting to liquid.

As I drive, music from the 1980’s group Harvest, fills the air. Their harmonies and convicting lyrics never grow old for me.

Back in our only-two-car-seat days, I kept their cassettes in our little Saturn, and played them while running errands. (Now, I wonder why it never occurred to me to play children’s music, or stories??) If I forgot to start the tape, a swift kick into the back of my seat was felt, and a two year old voice was heard requesting, “Mommie, make it thump!” This little person loved not only the music, but especially when Mommie turned up the bass for fun.

Today, those memories came flooding back. A simpler time in our family, when we didn’t know how good we had it, or how happy we were. Tears pushed at my eyes, my throat tightened, and my heart twisted, even as my hands steadied the wheel.

It's not often I feel like lifting my hands in worship

It's not often I feel like singing a song of joy
But I'm often reminded of His ways, how He is so faithful
So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise

In the last few years I have come to realize that praising God really is a sacrifice. Because lifting our eyes above our own circumstances, and focusing them on Him, takes effort. The action does not come naturally. We want praise to be upbeat, happy, an emotional experience that makes us feel good. But I don’t feel "good."  Happiness is elusive. And while I’ve got emotions leaking out everywhere, they are not what I care to share with the general public. I want to give God the good stuff, not this mess. I don’t feel worthy, I don’t WANT to do this.

All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

But God wants all of us, all that is inside us, the stuff that defines who we are, in our eyes.

It's not often enough my heart and spirit are broken
It's not often enough that he finds me on my knees
But so often He comes in His cleansing love and forgives me

Not often enough? Really? I am tired of being broken. Tired of weeping. Tired of asking, when the answer doesn’t seem to come. And my knees hurt. I alternate between mentally pounding my fists on His chest and demanding “Whywhy,” to crumpling at His feet in a sodden mass of helpless tears.

So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise
All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

It's not often enough I've seen through what He's given
It's not often enough I'm seeking in His Word
But so often I stand amazed that I'm one He's chosen

He chose me. HE chose me. He CHOSE me. He chose ME. This is a good thing? This is a gift? HE CHOSE ME. I don’t want to be chosen for this. I want left alone. No more pain. No more crushing grief. A clear mind, the ability to concentrate and function normally again. A return of my health, my family.

So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise

It is a sacrifice. Because I don’t want to give it. Not this way. I am unworthy, a colossal failure cut open, splattered for all to see. Like a child cupping protective hands over a skinned knee, choosing the known pain over the unknown sting of healing salve, I resist. But He holds out his arms, to receive the mess that is me.

All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

It is really about Him, not me. The mess that is me, glorifies the Lamb? Why would He stain His white robes with me? But I raise my arms, and place my fears, failures, and fractured, bleeding heart, in His. Because this too is worship. This glorifies the Lamb. He died for this. He can ease the pain, mend the broken, restore what the locust has eaten. He only asks that I trust Him with all that I am, trust Him to guide me through the sting of healing. It is about Who He is, and What He has done. Not about me at all.

Matronly Merriment Muffled

Matronly Merriment Muffled

September 16, 2017

The last rest stop on I-94 in North Dakota. A quick one, as we had miles to go before dark, as it were. I entered the unoccupied ladies’ room, choosing a stall near the end of the line. Shortly someone else entered, footsteps stopping a few doors up from mine. Moments later, another set of footsteps, carrying a voice with them that could be heard speaking, though words were not discernible. Another stall door opened and closed. Then an audible conversation began, apparently unaware of my presence.

STALL ONE: Whatcha sayin’ out there?

STALL TWO: Oh, you heard that.

STALL ONE: Well, who ya talkin’ to? Yourself?

STALL TWO: Nope. I ain’t that desperate.

Intrigued, I listened unashamedly. Humorist Jeannie Robertson says if you listen, you will find humor in the most unexpected places. Well, I was listening, and this was unexpected.

ONE: Who, then? No one else here!

Little did she know.

TWO: I was talkin’ to my bladder.

ONE: Whatsa’ matter, ain’t it cooperating today?

TWO: Well...it’s movin’ slow, and I’m movin’ slower.

Hmmm.

ONE: And you think talking to it will help?

TWO: Most days it’s all I got to talk to.

Now I was in a fix. I had a desperate need to get outside to release the screams of laughter jammed up in my throat. But the characters in this drama had not discerned my presence, and most likely wouldn’t appreciate being acquainted with the fact at this stage.

ONE: That’s life when you get old. Good conversation is hard to come by.

OK, that’s it. I’m gone. Need to offload some humor before I can handle the next unexpected. The poor Trucker. I leave him with tears running down my cheeks, and return the same way, but for an entirely different reason. The man’s gonna get whiplash from his Passenger’s emotions.

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

September 16, 2017

I-94 West. A calm Saturday morning. The truck rolls along smoothly, guided by the Trucker’s arm draped over the wheel. The road is flat and straight, and empty. Flowing from the radio, music gently presses silence to the cab’s corners. Lost in thought, the Trucker and his Passenger sit quietly.

Outside, the landscape is barren. Amber grasses and scrubby bushes hold their ground between vast expanses of black. Power line poles are darkened, their lines dipping toward earth. Post and wire fences that parallel the highway are laid over, poles burned out, unsupported wire fallen. The flames have passed, and are gone.

And the rains have come. They always do. 

The low hanging atmosphere of ash and acrid smoke of summer has given way to a blanket of rain clouds. A continual mist hangs in the air, now light, now steady rain. Brown, rustling grasses have a golden tinge. Scrubby gray bushes show light green hope at the ends of their sharp stems.

 The gullies have standing water, and new grass poking experimental blades tentatively upward. Low areas that protect occasional trees now sport color, as the leaves are changing clothes, awaiting their release to spiral toward earth in the beauty of death after a life of purpose well lived. Occasional fields have now exploded with a riot of green, their growth competing with the calendar’s race toward winter.

The temperature stands at 38 degrees. Oh. Last trip west, two weeks ago, it showed 100. My duffle bag in the bunk, duly packed after checking long range forecasts across the country, sports t-shirts and flip flops. Never mind. Two days from now, those clothes will work. At the moment, sweats and fuzzy socks wrap me in cozily, while the truck carries us forward.

And the rains have come. They still do.

Gentle mists of tears, harsh, ripping torrents of sobs, over the blackened, empty landscape where our hopes and dreams once grew. The Trucker guides me through this as well, sheltering me in his care. I envision our Savior, His arms around us both, His hand on the Trucker’s shoulder through the storm. May these rains also grow hope at the ends of the sharp stems of accusations and assumptions.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus. You always do.

The Peterbuilt on 970

September 14, 2017

Crawling slowly up Route 970, the big green Kenworth labors under a full load, dropping back beside a Peterbilt pulling a walking floor trailer in the right lane. A gravelly voice from the Peterbilt cab grates out of the Kenworth’s CB radio.

“Thought a pretty truck like that would be way out ahead!”

The Trucker reaches for his mic.

“Not with a full load – you must be running empty!”

“Naaah, there ain’t no more room in this wagon. Weeelll, come on up in front, driver. I got all day to get up this hill, and there’s a red light at the top. Gonna be a long ride down the other side behind me.”

“OK, thank you...have a good one, driver.”

And the Peterbilt drops back, while the big green Kenworth shifts gears, growling upward, easing into the right lane, just in time for a green light and a clear ride down.

Wayside Waterworks

Wayside Waterworks

September 12, 2017

Time on the road means numerous rest stops, at a different place most every time. I wonder how many different ones I have experienced over the years. Always, there are various degrees of space, convenience, and most importantly, cleanliness. Grateful as I am for the facilities, it is always with a sense of relief that I return home to my own familiar bathroom, even if I didn’t have time to clean it before leaving.

Today’s experience could have won a prize in the dubious category of perverse plumbing. A truckstop in Ohio, which boasted a sizable, mostly empty parking lot (unusual!), large open foyer, and clean, multi-stalled restrooms. I entered, along with a trio of beautiful Indian ladies in traditional dress. The first open stall offered a wet seat, so I pivoted and entered the next, only the find the same. And in the next. After the third stall offered yet another well watered seat, I entered, and using multiple layers of tissue, thoroughly dried the seat.

The floor was also wet, which necessitated careful maneuvering. The little red radar eye on the wall behind the porcelain throne winked knowingly at me. Perching gingerly, I immediately heard the pipes under and behind me beginning to clear their throats in warning. Before I could react, a geyser of cold water fountained up. NOW I understood why each seat was wet. As I shifted position the pipes again began their ominous throat clearing. I bolted to my feet and huddled in the front corner of the stall til the deluge was over, making the back of my skirt vulnerable in the process. How to reach for the tissue to make myself dry and presentable without setting off the plumbing again? Gingerly, with a wary glare at that evil red eye on the wall.

Out at the sink, one of the lovely Indian ladies grinned at me and burst forth with a stream of chatter in her language. I did the same in mine and we understood each other perfectly. As I left the room, yet another lady entered, and I saw her begin the enter, pivot, and re-enter routine. She looked questioningly at me. I pantomimed a liquid explosion. She groaned, I gestured, we went our separate ways.

I joined the Trucker in the lobby (only once have I been able to beat him back out there – he’s a patient man). Together we exited and started across the parking lot. Seeing a story in my face, he asked to hear it (now he’s a brave man). Before I was finished, he was shouting with amusement, earning us startled looks from passing drivers crossing the lot. Oh, it was worth a wetting to hear his rich laughter roll into the afternoon air.

There has been precious little laughter in our lives recently. The harsh, barren landscape we have traveled the last year has not produced much but the steady rain of tears. And those tears, watering the soil of our lives, have not produced the growth we are praying for, as yet. Hopes are gasping for their last breath, dreams appear destined for burial, cherished loved ones remain determinedly out of reach.

It almost seems wrong to laugh, when our hearts feel like they are damaged beyond repair. And most often, laughter, like any other emotion, still ends in the now familiar expression of grief. But for one brief moment laughter bubbled to the surface. Maybe one day it will be restored, along with the other parts of our lives that are now most too painful to touch. But if not, we know Who holds the future, and we cling to His hand through the storm and rain.