i drive your truck

for my children, their best times growing up meant they were a stone's throw from their grandpa troy. hanging onto his coat tails as a youngster, driving the tractor (sort of) with papa watching closely, plowing the fields in the spring and dropping seeds for corn that they would eventually have to pick. the work wasn't fun, but being with papa was.

once he was gone, those old traditions sort of vanished. but because of him, they will know how to plow a field, change the oil, drive a tractor, build a shed, fix a lawnmower, use a tool, appreciate clint eastwood films, grill a steak, sit a spell, and give it their all.

for ty, he's got his papa with him everyday. in his truck. the truck papa drove every day of his life. the one that lingers with cigarette smoke and a dirty ashtray, a radio station tuned to old-timey country music, the glove compartment left exactly as it was. ty wouldn't dare change a thing, and he will move heaven and earth to maintain this truck. not because it gets him from place to place, but because his papa is a passenger. for life.

Lee Brice - I Drive Your Truck

Eighty-Nine Cents in the ash tray
Half empty bottle of Gatorade rolling in the floorboard
That dirty Braves cap on the dash
Dog tags hangin’ from the rear view
Old Skoal can, and cowboy boots and a Go Army Shirt
folded in the back
This thing burns gas like crazy, but that’s alright
People got their ways of coping
Oh, and I’ve got mine.

I leave that radio playing
That same ole country station where ya left it
Yeah, man I crank it up
And you’d probably punch my arm right now
If you saw this tear rollin’ down on my face
Hey, man I’m tryin’ to be tough
And momma asked me this morning
If I’d been by your grave
But that flag and stone ain’t where I feel you anyway.

I drive your truck
I roll every window down
And I burn up
Every back road in this town
I find a field, I tear it up
Til all the pain’s a cloud of dust
Yeah, sometimes I drive your truck.

we're all different

It was errand Wednesday and grocery store time.

I was killing time during my pharmacy wait, so I went down every aisle. I'm one of those women you hate - one who likes to meander around, look for the unusual and read labels. Looking for something besides the same-ole, same-ole. I moved down the condiment row and ahead of me was a woman with two small children. One at her legs, babbling about something and blowing on the pinwheel his mother had handed him, simply for entertainment, not to take home. As they passed, I noticed her seven or eight year old boy lingering behind, looking and touching the salad dressing bottles. When he saw me watching, he quickly scooted by me joining his mother. I looked to the left where he had been, and I noticed his fascination. He had turned every bottle - three rows deep, 10 bottles wide - backwards. I smiled. I'm sure the Publix folks would not.

Then I thought of the Connecticut children and parents. The moments parents will miss . . .

saying a million times No to the cereal with tons of sugar . . .
popping small hands that must touch every box on the shelf . . .
ignoring the fits of the tiniest who don't understand you just can't have everything you want . . .

or
the contagious smile of a child just handed a warm cookie . . .
the entertaining games with the one sitting in the cart seat . . .
the company of a child who makes the most mundane of errands fun.

So much left undone.

I thought of the teachers, too.

It's not a far stretch, really, for teachers to refer to their students as their kids. I did it for twenty years. They belonged to me as much as they belonged to their parents. I spent countless days with them, loving them, molding them, encouraging them, and changing them. Of course, they were mine.

I'm sure every teacher in America has put themselves in those Sandy Hook classrooms.

I remember the drills, walk quickly to the door, look out, assess the situation, close the door, lock the door, turn off the lights, get the kids to a corner, wait and pray. Each time, most of my heart and mind felt it would never happen, but there was a tiny spec that wondered when and could I do this. Thank God, I never had to do that with fear on the other side.

I can assure you, those teachers were ready. They were terrified, but they were ready. They held their children tightly, waited and prayed.

I am thankful for a life with my children and my students. I am a different woman because of those times. We are all different people because of Sandy Hook.

Matthew 11:25-30
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.