Winter 2015 - 2016. The Last Student was finishing his senior year credits at our little home school. It was difficult, those last two years, to stay focused. His still-at-home siblings were working full time. Mother was working part time from home. Weeks that Dad was home, days siblings had off, the house buzzed with activity he could not share. School had long since lost its flavor.
February 2016. Credits for graduation completed. The diploma would not arrive until May. The Last Student was ready for a full time job. Specifically a truck driving job.
An application was duly completed at the local feed mill. A phone call later that same day confirmed his acceptance. Plans were made almost immediately for him to begin the process of obtaining his CDL in preparation for driving the Kenworth tri-axle delivery truck.
Through the demanding summer that followed, he diligently carved out time to study. Three weeks after the trauma of losing his sisters, the first test was taken, and failed. The earliest re-test option was two weeks later. This one he passed.
It was a busy time for the mill. Almost immediately, he was sent out on his own, loaded to the maximum of 17 tons. Added to the physical stress of handling the 80 - 100 pound bags each day, was the learning of routes, the driving of a large truck on narrow back roads frequented by bikes and buggies, tractors and tourists.
Throughout this time was the additional emotional strain of a Grandpa undergoing treatment for leukemia, and sisters who believed lies and rejected their family. It all seemed unreal. This was to be the best time of his life. Instead it was the worst. Betrayal, confusion, abandonment, loss; all that represented security was coming loose.
Three weeks after his CDL came through, on October 3, 2016, the word came. Grandpa was dying. Did he want to come to the hospital to say goodbye? Yes he did. But no, he did not. And he was at the southern end of the county. Unaware then, that Grandpa would actually not be taken off life support until 10PM, he declined to come.
The next morning, driving south on Mine Road with a full load, the grief, the stress, the pressure caused by his sisters' betrayal, all came to a head. Added to his relative inexperience as a driver, and the heavily loaded truck, it was too much.
His truck drifted off the right shoulder into ground soft from recent rains. Feeling the surface begin to give, he over corrected back onto the roadway, completely losing control. Realizing his helplessness, he threw himself across the seats. God's mercy prevented any other vehicles from being in his path that morning.
When the runaway truck came to rest, it was miraculously upright, in a wooded area just off the left side of the road. Stunned, and now with the humiliation of a wrecked truck added to his emotional burden, he called his boss.
During the hour it took for assistance to arrive from the company (no emergency calls were made) he stood alone among the trees, leaning against the mangled truck body for support, and wept. Wrenching, wracking sobs ripped from his chest. Tears streamed down his face, soaking his beard and drenching the dusty shirt already wet with sweat from physical labor and shock. All the stress, all the suppressed emotion of the past months, was unleashed.
Only the Heavenly Father and His Angels heard the agony of a young man, hurting more than he knew was possible, yet unwilling to make that call to his parents for support. Knowing their deep grief, ashamed of adding to it with what he mistakenly deemed was his own incompetence.
______
Several weeks later, on a sunny afternoon, the Trucker and his Passenger drove to the scene. Few words were spoken on the trip.
What they saw weakened their knees. Between a gap in the trees, a gap just wide enough for a tri-axle truck, deep ruts remained. The ONLY such gap between mature trees in more than a mile of woods along the road. Any other place would have presented a head on collision with a tree substantial enough to crush the cab. And it was the ONLY place where the ground was level with the road, where a truck could cross the road's shoulder without rolling.
Through the demanding summer that followed, he diligently carved out time to study. Three weeks after the trauma of losing his sisters, the first test was taken, and failed. The earliest re-test option was two weeks later. This one he passed.
It was a busy time for the mill. Almost immediately, he was sent out on his own, loaded to the maximum of 17 tons. Added to the physical stress of handling the 80 - 100 pound bags each day, was the learning of routes, the driving of a large truck on narrow back roads frequented by bikes and buggies, tractors and tourists.
Throughout this time was the additional emotional strain of a Grandpa undergoing treatment for leukemia, and sisters who believed lies and rejected their family. It all seemed unreal. This was to be the best time of his life. Instead it was the worst. Betrayal, confusion, abandonment, loss; all that represented security was coming loose.
Three weeks after his CDL came through, on October 3, 2016, the word came. Grandpa was dying. Did he want to come to the hospital to say goodbye? Yes he did. But no, he did not. And he was at the southern end of the county. Unaware then, that Grandpa would actually not be taken off life support until 10PM, he declined to come.
The next morning, driving south on Mine Road with a full load, the grief, the stress, the pressure caused by his sisters' betrayal, all came to a head. Added to his relative inexperience as a driver, and the heavily loaded truck, it was too much.
His truck drifted off the right shoulder into ground soft from recent rains. Feeling the surface begin to give, he over corrected back onto the roadway, completely losing control. Realizing his helplessness, he threw himself across the seats. God's mercy prevented any other vehicles from being in his path that morning.
When the runaway truck came to rest, it was miraculously upright, in a wooded area just off the left side of the road. Stunned, and now with the humiliation of a wrecked truck added to his emotional burden, he called his boss.
During the hour it took for assistance to arrive from the company (no emergency calls were made) he stood alone among the trees, leaning against the mangled truck body for support, and wept. Wrenching, wracking sobs ripped from his chest. Tears streamed down his face, soaking his beard and drenching the dusty shirt already wet with sweat from physical labor and shock. All the stress, all the suppressed emotion of the past months, was unleashed.
Only the Heavenly Father and His Angels heard the agony of a young man, hurting more than he knew was possible, yet unwilling to make that call to his parents for support. Knowing their deep grief, ashamed of adding to it with what he mistakenly deemed was his own incompetence.
______
Several weeks later, on a sunny afternoon, the Trucker and his Passenger drove to the scene. Few words were spoken on the trip.
What they saw weakened their knees. Between a gap in the trees, a gap just wide enough for a tri-axle truck, deep ruts remained. The ONLY such gap between mature trees in more than a mile of woods along the road. Any other place would have presented a head on collision with a tree substantial enough to crush the cab. And it was the ONLY place where the ground was level with the road, where a truck could cross the road's shoulder without rolling.
A few small branches had been stripped off the trees on either side. Scars on the trees where the sides of the truck scraped were evident.
Scattered around, pressed into the soil, were broken lug nut covers, bits of chrome, paint chips.
Once again, tears were shed in this place. Once again, the Father and His Angels looked on as grief, and gratitude for life, ran down faces like rain. And gratefulness for the Heavenly Warriors who guided that out-of-control Kenworth to the only level ground and opening in trees to be had. For the grace that prevented two funerals instead of one, that awful week.
They gathered a few fragments, and drove home in near silence.
_____
April 10, 2019. Still driving that tri-axle for the mill, still handling those 80-100 pound bags.
Three weeks away from leaving this job, again in a very busy season at the mill. Loaded to capacity, our Dear Son #2 was on that same road in the southern end of the county. Driving 40 mph on the narrow, winding stretch.
A crack pierced the air. Gunshot, he thought. In the same instant he realized, no, not a gunshot. A blown tire. A front one, which caused complete loss of control. How he brought that heavily loaded truck to a safe stop, why there was no other traffic in his path, are acts of God that cannot be explained in human terms.
This time, no tears. Yes, grief and loss still very much a part of life. But 2 1/2 years had brought with them a measure of maturity and acceptance, an increase in skill. And this time the damage to the truck was beyond his responsibility and control.
Again, the call to his boss for assistance, and more than an hour of wait time for said assistance to arrive. This time? He pulled out his phone, which in these digital times held his notes, research websites and Scriptures for the upcoming Sunday School class he was teaching, and studied. And then napped.
______
A few days later, he stopped by the house, and in a casual conversation shared the story of the blown tire, and the marvel of being able to bring the truck back under control and to a stop safely afterward.
The Passenger's heart twisted, once more, as grief and gratitude struggled for the upper emotion. She turned, walked to a shelf, and extracted a small box from behind the row of books. Holding it out, she showed him the collection of lug nuts, chrome, and paint chips from the wreck 2 1/2 years earlier. Explaining what the pieces were from, and why she kept them.
Tears misted his eyes. "May I have one?"
"Absolutely! You may have all you want, just leave me one piece as a reminder to pray."
We never know, when we pray, what God will do with those prayers. All we know is that we are commanded to pray, that He will hear, and will uphold us, whatever the answer He deems best.
Scattered around, pressed into the soil, were broken lug nut covers, bits of chrome, paint chips.
Once again, tears were shed in this place. Once again, the Father and His Angels looked on as grief, and gratitude for life, ran down faces like rain. And gratefulness for the Heavenly Warriors who guided that out-of-control Kenworth to the only level ground and opening in trees to be had. For the grace that prevented two funerals instead of one, that awful week.
They gathered a few fragments, and drove home in near silence.
_____
April 10, 2019. Still driving that tri-axle for the mill, still handling those 80-100 pound bags.
Three weeks away from leaving this job, again in a very busy season at the mill. Loaded to capacity, our Dear Son #2 was on that same road in the southern end of the county. Driving 40 mph on the narrow, winding stretch.
A crack pierced the air. Gunshot, he thought. In the same instant he realized, no, not a gunshot. A blown tire. A front one, which caused complete loss of control. How he brought that heavily loaded truck to a safe stop, why there was no other traffic in his path, are acts of God that cannot be explained in human terms.
This time, no tears. Yes, grief and loss still very much a part of life. But 2 1/2 years had brought with them a measure of maturity and acceptance, an increase in skill. And this time the damage to the truck was beyond his responsibility and control.
Again, the call to his boss for assistance, and more than an hour of wait time for said assistance to arrive. This time? He pulled out his phone, which in these digital times held his notes, research websites and Scriptures for the upcoming Sunday School class he was teaching, and studied. And then napped.
______
A few days later, he stopped by the house, and in a casual conversation shared the story of the blown tire, and the marvel of being able to bring the truck back under control and to a stop safely afterward.
The Passenger's heart twisted, once more, as grief and gratitude struggled for the upper emotion. She turned, walked to a shelf, and extracted a small box from behind the row of books. Holding it out, she showed him the collection of lug nuts, chrome, and paint chips from the wreck 2 1/2 years earlier. Explaining what the pieces were from, and why she kept them.
Tears misted his eyes. "May I have one?"
"Absolutely! You may have all you want, just leave me one piece as a reminder to pray."
We never know, when we pray, what God will do with those prayers. All we know is that we are commanded to pray, that He will hear, and will uphold us, whatever the answer He deems best.
