Last month, my husband and I took a quick trip to Nashville to celebrate my Mother's birthday and attend a Christmas show downtown. The trip was great, and though we enjoyed the rare kid-less evening, we also felt the tug of home. I, for one, was ready to make the trip back over the plateau to hug my little ones.
When we stopped for gas about halfway through our return journey, I headed inside to grab some quick road food. Something about car travel makes me crave the junk that I usually try to avoid. As I was headed to the register with my food and drink in hand, an older gentleman spotted my Maryville College sweatshirt and stopped to chat. He looked a bit disheveled, to say the least, He had either medicine or shaving cream stuck to the side of his face. His hair was a bit "Harry Carey" - SNL style. He talked too close, and seemed to change the subject every other sentence. I don't remember now what his connection to MC was (I'm not sure he really had one), but he did love to talk. By the time my husband came in to see what was taking so long, I had already learned of his time teaching in the math department at some tech school and the year he spent going to elementary school on the border near Mexico. Needless to say, we were cornered. I felt the diet coke in my hand becoming warmer as he talked, and my husband and I kept eyeing each other trying to find a moment to escape. I think it was Mark who finally said, "Well, we'd better get home to the kids..." We thought we had done it. We were clear for our getaway. But at that moment, the man reached inside his button-down shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to me, still slightly curved from being tucked near his belly. On the front was a photo of a beautiful bride, complete with name and dates. I realized quickly that I was holding the funeral program for his late wife. They had been married for over 50 years. She had cancer early, which left them unable to have kids. She was related to the Hepburn family (yes, I could see a resemblance). He told us how she had died just a few months before. He told us how at the end, she had become incontinent, but he didn't mind. He told us that at the funeral when he was reading the 23rd Psalm, he had to skip the part about the "shadow of death" because he just couldn't say that. He looked at us with tears in his eyes, and I knew that all of his talk with strangers in the gas station was a brief attempt at distraction. The love of his life was gone, and he had no children of his own to give him comfort. For those few moments, he was once again connecting to the living, and I was so thankful that I was there to listen. I wish I had saved the funeral program, but even without it, I think about this man throughout many of my days. I hope he's doing okay. I hope his church family is keeping him company in his grief. I hope that other people in the gas station are nice enough to give him some time. I think of the Psalm that states, "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted," and I know that God must be close to him. And I hugged my husband tighter and kissed my baby more. And I thanked God that he uses strangers to teach us such valuable lessons - sometimes in spite of our rush to get somewhere else.
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Diana CurtisWife, mom, stepmom, writing instructor, handbell ringer, choir singer, calligrapher, and expert napper. Archives
December 2017
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