Reflections
On the coldest days of winter
here, in this beautiful land
the sun shines.
When it sets in early evening,
the alpenglow reflects
like fire on the snowy peaks.
Do I, on my earthly journey
here, in the busyness of life,
reveal the Son?
Can His light, which most see dimly,
from my placid soul reflect
like fire amidst the darkness?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Before Pictures
There comes a point in life when you realize you are the "before" picture, before the weight loss, before the face lift, before the makeover. In all probability, the only "after" picture will be placed next to your obituary in the paper--you can't get much more after than that. On the subject of obituary pictures, I have a theory on why obituaries for deceased octogenarians display their high school senior picture, it may have been the last good photo taken of them. I actually feel sorry for stars pursued by paparazzi; I know how many shots it takes to get one decent photo of me. I think that is why obituary photos are often from previous decades. Camera shy people compound the problem; "leave no trace" is for hiking, not lives.
But back to the issue of "before" pictures and the certainty that "Prevention" magazine is never going to want you for the cover, how do you reconcile with the changes aging brings to your body? Some choose to stand and fight, but after age 40 you are only as beautiful as you can afford and I'm not that rich. Some surrender unconditionally; they run around in pajamas, bedhead and no makeup. This disguises age by making 60 to 80 year olds look alike, but not in a good way. I have two coping strategies, both involving prayer. I pray the serenity prayer over my body: Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things (about my aging body) I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. This prayer is just as useful if the struggle is with health, finances or its usual purpose of addiction. I also pray that I will grow in the inner graces that God finds beautiful--a gentle and quiet spirit. I can be gentle, quiet is another matter.
As a partial answer to my prayers God has given me a few objects lessons in women in the end stages of a lifetime of vanity, after all those years peering into the makeup mirror, they have lost sight of everything else. An acquaintance recently reminded me that it's no coincidence that your looks and eyesight go at the same time. We should probably take that as a hint. Another hint is to recognize what products are appropriate for your age. Too much make up on young girls makes them look even younger, too much make up on elderly women makes them look even older. Also, when young people tell you some contemporary style looks cute on you, what they really mean is pathetic. Leave contemporary to people who are. As someone who had a limited supply of beauty to begin with, now seeing the expiration date on that supply come ever nearer, I need to remind myself that the only truly sad "before" picture is what life was like before Christ.
But back to the issue of "before" pictures and the certainty that "Prevention" magazine is never going to want you for the cover, how do you reconcile with the changes aging brings to your body? Some choose to stand and fight, but after age 40 you are only as beautiful as you can afford and I'm not that rich. Some surrender unconditionally; they run around in pajamas, bedhead and no makeup. This disguises age by making 60 to 80 year olds look alike, but not in a good way. I have two coping strategies, both involving prayer. I pray the serenity prayer over my body: Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things (about my aging body) I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. This prayer is just as useful if the struggle is with health, finances or its usual purpose of addiction. I also pray that I will grow in the inner graces that God finds beautiful--a gentle and quiet spirit. I can be gentle, quiet is another matter.
As a partial answer to my prayers God has given me a few objects lessons in women in the end stages of a lifetime of vanity, after all those years peering into the makeup mirror, they have lost sight of everything else. An acquaintance recently reminded me that it's no coincidence that your looks and eyesight go at the same time. We should probably take that as a hint. Another hint is to recognize what products are appropriate for your age. Too much make up on young girls makes them look even younger, too much make up on elderly women makes them look even older. Also, when young people tell you some contemporary style looks cute on you, what they really mean is pathetic. Leave contemporary to people who are. As someone who had a limited supply of beauty to begin with, now seeing the expiration date on that supply come ever nearer, I need to remind myself that the only truly sad "before" picture is what life was like before Christ.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
A Prayer for my Old Age
For as long as I can remember I have loved older people. Perhaps one of the reasons is that I was privileged to have an "old grandma", great grandmother, who lived until I was nine years old. She stands out in my life as the first Christian I remember meeting. She died at age 100, still living alone in her own tiny house, still gardening. She told wonderful stories of long ago, her childhood, homesteading in eastern Montana in middle age in the 1910's, the way neighbors took care of one another, or failed to. But her stories were permeated with Bible truths lived out, not just talked about, long before I knew what Bible truths were. I look forward to seeing her again.
It doesn't bother me when the elderly give bowel status reports and "organ" recitals. I am a nurse of sorts, these things are important. I also understand that the hardest losses of all come late in life. Yet there are things about old age that frighten me, not the narrowing of the arteries but the narrowing of the mind and the careless opening of the mouth, as if age has granted a verbal license to shoot it off . As access to the outside world decreases with physical limitations, life becomes increasingly lived in the confines of the mind. I would like that mind to be as spacious as possible. Alarmingly, I have recognized signs in myself that I may be on the verge on burdening others with the benefits of my years and experience. That is one of the reasons I started this blog, to satisfy my need to share without victimizing those around me. No one is required to read this blog.
Older Christians are not immune to oversharing or fear of debility and death. They don't fear what comes after death, but the process of death. All Christians are to look forward to the imminent return of Christ, but for some this becomes motivated more by fear of their death than love of His appearing. I wrote the following poem as a reminder to myself of what I don't want to be when I grow up.
A Prayer for my Old Age
Lord, let me not grow old before my time
stiff in body, stiffer still in mind.
Strengthen me to speak with grace and tact,
long-held opinions don't turn into fact.
Help me to remember that the wise
don't give unsolicited advice.
Let me grant to other souls the grace
to grow in you, as I did, at their pace.
May my desire to live til you appear
be driven by my love and not my fear.
As my body shrinks and my steps slow,
may my faith enlarge that I may go
boldly after you, even to death,
and trust and grow in you with my last breath.
6/27/2010
It doesn't bother me when the elderly give bowel status reports and "organ" recitals. I am a nurse of sorts, these things are important. I also understand that the hardest losses of all come late in life. Yet there are things about old age that frighten me, not the narrowing of the arteries but the narrowing of the mind and the careless opening of the mouth, as if age has granted a verbal license to shoot it off . As access to the outside world decreases with physical limitations, life becomes increasingly lived in the confines of the mind. I would like that mind to be as spacious as possible. Alarmingly, I have recognized signs in myself that I may be on the verge on burdening others with the benefits of my years and experience. That is one of the reasons I started this blog, to satisfy my need to share without victimizing those around me. No one is required to read this blog.
Older Christians are not immune to oversharing or fear of debility and death. They don't fear what comes after death, but the process of death. All Christians are to look forward to the imminent return of Christ, but for some this becomes motivated more by fear of their death than love of His appearing. I wrote the following poem as a reminder to myself of what I don't want to be when I grow up.
A Prayer for my Old Age
Lord, let me not grow old before my time
stiff in body, stiffer still in mind.
Strengthen me to speak with grace and tact,
long-held opinions don't turn into fact.
Help me to remember that the wise
don't give unsolicited advice.
Let me grant to other souls the grace
to grow in you, as I did, at their pace.
May my desire to live til you appear
be driven by my love and not my fear.
As my body shrinks and my steps slow,
may my faith enlarge that I may go
boldly after you, even to death,
and trust and grow in you with my last breath.
6/27/2010
ALARMISM
Normal may still be a setting on your dryer but apparently not on the news. What used to be considered normal winter weather is now "winter storm warning". The same conditions that in years past would be called bad winter weather now inspire "emergency travel only" warnings. Since when did expected conditions become alarming? I realize with the media saturation available today, the only way to get people to listen to a program about weather, health, politics etc. is to make it sound more exciting than it is, but that doesn't make it an emergency. The Aesop's fable about the boy who cried wolf still applies. When we are repeatedly warned about threats that don't materialize, we will not be paying attention if there is a real emergency.
One of my older acquaintances, Dee, has a seemingly endless capacity to be alarmed. She fears diseases found only on other continents, bacteria in food she has never eaten, and bedbugs in the bed she has had for 40 years and no one else has ever slept on. She seems to delight in warnings and worry. She is a shut in, worry gives her something to do. The more important the worry, the more important she feels for worrying about it.
When I was in school we had a normal bell that made a "brrring" sound to tell us when it was time for school, recess and various class changes. The fire drill bell, on the other hand, made a sharp "Bzzzzzzt" sound that started adrenaline pumping even if you knew you were having a fire drill. Todays broadcasters have sounded the fire drill alarm so often most of us have cotton in our ears. I think there should be some penalty attached like there is for calling 911 to order pizza or using the emergency broadcast system to announce a bake sale. But the only penalties that are available to us are tuning out the warnings or turning off the TV.
Having grown up with a geniunely paranoid person, I can tell you that the fact that the dire predictions never happen is no deterrent to believing they are about to, or moving on to a new threat. This win-win, or in this case, lose-lose aspect is especially appealing to people who are naturally pessimistic or devoted worry warts like Dee. I hope this alarmist phase of broadcasting will be short lived, but if it continues, I am going to use this blog to repeatedly WARN PEOPLE OF THE DANGERS OF ALARMISM!! There will always be some gullible cynic willing to take it seriously.
One of my older acquaintances, Dee, has a seemingly endless capacity to be alarmed. She fears diseases found only on other continents, bacteria in food she has never eaten, and bedbugs in the bed she has had for 40 years and no one else has ever slept on. She seems to delight in warnings and worry. She is a shut in, worry gives her something to do. The more important the worry, the more important she feels for worrying about it.
When I was in school we had a normal bell that made a "brrring" sound to tell us when it was time for school, recess and various class changes. The fire drill bell, on the other hand, made a sharp "Bzzzzzzt" sound that started adrenaline pumping even if you knew you were having a fire drill. Todays broadcasters have sounded the fire drill alarm so often most of us have cotton in our ears. I think there should be some penalty attached like there is for calling 911 to order pizza or using the emergency broadcast system to announce a bake sale. But the only penalties that are available to us are tuning out the warnings or turning off the TV.
Having grown up with a geniunely paranoid person, I can tell you that the fact that the dire predictions never happen is no deterrent to believing they are about to, or moving on to a new threat. This win-win, or in this case, lose-lose aspect is especially appealing to people who are naturally pessimistic or devoted worry warts like Dee. I hope this alarmist phase of broadcasting will be short lived, but if it continues, I am going to use this blog to repeatedly WARN PEOPLE OF THE DANGERS OF ALARMISM!! There will always be some gullible cynic willing to take it seriously.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Unlikely Guides
I came to know Christ as a teenager so the people involved in my salvation were also teenagers. The first was Calvin. Calvin was a friend of my older brother. He had a round, acne prone face, a pear shaped body and somewhat effeminate mannerisms. He was, of course, extremely unpopular at high school. Calvin attended a teen Bible study to which he invited my brother, Clell. Clell, who had been raised in the Mormon church like me, started inviting me to the monthly parties for the teen group. I attended some of the parties, but began to feel guilty for not attending the Bible studies on Thursday nights. My brother seemed to believe what was being taught and I was in a spiritual gap between the Mormon church, in which I believed but no longer attended, and the various theories popular at the time: evolution, the lost continent of Mu, ancient astronauts etc. Like many people, I was creating my own beliefs combining whatever spiritual elements I found most compelling.
Then I encountered the book of John. The pastor of the small, Baptist church was leading the teens in a study of the book of John. As a Mormon I was taught to believe the Bible, it was one of our articles of faith. "We believe the Bible to be the Word of God, as far as it is translated correctly. We also believe the Book of Mormon to be the Word of God." Somehow, when the Bible conflicted with the teachings of the Mormon church, I believed the Bible. Though I didn't know it at the time, this was God's grace working in my life. In Mormonism, as in all other cults and most other religions, salvation is a result of things we do: baptism, church membership, attendance, obedience, service etc. In the Bible salvation, is the result of what Christ did for us by dying on the cross to free us from our sins, our only role is to believe and trust in that. I found this interesting and, mentally, I agreed with it, but I wasn't ready to admit my sin and ask Jesus to save me.
That is where Donna came in. Donna was a friend from grade school, a fellow "smart" girl and in my homeroom. I never discussed spiritual beliefs with Donna, Donna impacted my life by dying. We were 15 and sophomores when she started acting and talking strangely. Somehow Donna knew she was dying before she knew she was sick, she had even written about it. By the time she was diagnosed with hepatitis, it was too late. She died on my mom's birthday, March 14th. Suddenly I needed to know what happens after we die. It was not enough just to have ideas about it, I needed to be certain of what I believed.
Still I resisted trusting my life to Christ. I realized it would be unfair of me to ask Him to save my soul without offering to give Him my life after all He had paid for it. And I desperately did not want to give up control of my life, or the illusion of control we humans have. My childhood had been controlled by my mother's mental illness and I didn't want my emerging adulthood to be spent controlled by someone else, even someone like Jesus. I wanted to hold the steering wheel. So I resisted, even through the altar calls to come forward for salvation that the pastor gave at the end of every service. I stood gripping the pew in front of me until my knuckles were white, fighting the inner urging of the Holy Spirit to go forward and give in. I resisted until October 1972 when, after hearing a speaker at our church harvest dinner, I went home and asked Jesus to save me from my sins.
That night changed everything. Looking back I could see hundreds of events that brought me to the place of believing. It was my mom's paranoia that got me out of the Mormon church, it was Calvin's invitation that brought Clell and then me to Bible study, it was Donna's death that forced me to decide what I believed. They were the most unlikely guides to God you could imagine. When I wonder how God could possibly use me to serve and bring others to Him, I need to remember the unlikely creatures He used to guide me.
Then I encountered the book of John. The pastor of the small, Baptist church was leading the teens in a study of the book of John. As a Mormon I was taught to believe the Bible, it was one of our articles of faith. "We believe the Bible to be the Word of God, as far as it is translated correctly. We also believe the Book of Mormon to be the Word of God." Somehow, when the Bible conflicted with the teachings of the Mormon church, I believed the Bible. Though I didn't know it at the time, this was God's grace working in my life. In Mormonism, as in all other cults and most other religions, salvation is a result of things we do: baptism, church membership, attendance, obedience, service etc. In the Bible salvation, is the result of what Christ did for us by dying on the cross to free us from our sins, our only role is to believe and trust in that. I found this interesting and, mentally, I agreed with it, but I wasn't ready to admit my sin and ask Jesus to save me.
That is where Donna came in. Donna was a friend from grade school, a fellow "smart" girl and in my homeroom. I never discussed spiritual beliefs with Donna, Donna impacted my life by dying. We were 15 and sophomores when she started acting and talking strangely. Somehow Donna knew she was dying before she knew she was sick, she had even written about it. By the time she was diagnosed with hepatitis, it was too late. She died on my mom's birthday, March 14th. Suddenly I needed to know what happens after we die. It was not enough just to have ideas about it, I needed to be certain of what I believed.
Still I resisted trusting my life to Christ. I realized it would be unfair of me to ask Him to save my soul without offering to give Him my life after all He had paid for it. And I desperately did not want to give up control of my life, or the illusion of control we humans have. My childhood had been controlled by my mother's mental illness and I didn't want my emerging adulthood to be spent controlled by someone else, even someone like Jesus. I wanted to hold the steering wheel. So I resisted, even through the altar calls to come forward for salvation that the pastor gave at the end of every service. I stood gripping the pew in front of me until my knuckles were white, fighting the inner urging of the Holy Spirit to go forward and give in. I resisted until October 1972 when, after hearing a speaker at our church harvest dinner, I went home and asked Jesus to save me from my sins.
That night changed everything. Looking back I could see hundreds of events that brought me to the place of believing. It was my mom's paranoia that got me out of the Mormon church, it was Calvin's invitation that brought Clell and then me to Bible study, it was Donna's death that forced me to decide what I believed. They were the most unlikely guides to God you could imagine. When I wonder how God could possibly use me to serve and bring others to Him, I need to remember the unlikely creatures He used to guide me.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Memorized Moments
I have stated previously that I am not an observant person. I don't notice what vehicles my acquaintances drive, what they are wearing (with the occasional exception of earrings) or a weight loss/gain of less that 40 lbs. I pay more attention to how people seem to feel than how they look or even what they say. This is a blessing as well as a curse. I may not notice your 10 lb. weight loss, but neither do I notice your stained clothes or bad hair day. I am unobservant but also untroubled. But there are moments I try to memorize. Mostly these occur when we are traveling but not usually in the picture postcard places you would expect. This is especially important to me when I need a sustaining vision to get me through the dreary days of winter. I store these impressions in my memory, paying careful attention to the sights, sounds and feel. One of these stored memories is of being in Phoenix in January many years ago, sitting with Reed by the pool of the Residence Inn with my legs in the water, warm and content, looking up at the stars and deep blue twilight I can't edit out the sound of airplanes because the hotel was near the airport, but I can call that moment into my mind, complete with soundtrack.
Another memorized, magical moment was in the Bavarian themed town of Leavenworth, WA at Christmas time. Christmas music was playing, the shops were decorated and the lights on the large plaza trees were reflected by the snow on the ground and softened against the twilight blue sky. It was all the magic of Christmas in a mental snaphot. I believe I will have it forever.
Today I am in Port Orchard, WA. We left behind subzero, January weather. After the morning fog burned off, it was sunny and in the mid 50's. Our hotel is on the bay and I walked from here to the waterfront park and marina. I filled my eyes with boats, water and the green plants that I won't see in Montana for months. I listened to the sound of the water lapping on the shore, the call of gulls, barks of seals and mournful boat whistles. I wore the expensive red wool jacket that Dad bought as a love gift for Mom and she rejected. I had chili and chai tea in a diner, aptly named "The Hideaway". I was the only customer and there was a television in the corner tuned to soaps. I stood by the water and memorized the mildness of the moment so I can keep it with me in years to come, and I am journaling it here for myself, if no one else.
Port Orchard was discovered by Captain Vancouver and originally named Sidney, after the father of the man who platted it. In the early 1800's canoes were the most convenient way to travel and trade from here, sails and rudders made the trips faster and allowed more passengers, this led to fleets of steamships whose comparative speed got them the nickname "Mosquitoes". Roads made the little boats obsolete, but there is still a foot ferry to Bremerton from here.
The town appears old. There are multistoried houses of all ages and conditions perched on steep hillsides with roads that would be impassable in the winter in icy weather. Except for being on a bay, it reminds me of old mining towns in Montana. This was what I call "a day like a cup of tea", warm, satisfying, perfect. Why am I so surprised that God knows how to make me happy, that He gives me these comforting, memorized moments?
Another memorized, magical moment was in the Bavarian themed town of Leavenworth, WA at Christmas time. Christmas music was playing, the shops were decorated and the lights on the large plaza trees were reflected by the snow on the ground and softened against the twilight blue sky. It was all the magic of Christmas in a mental snaphot. I believe I will have it forever.
Today I am in Port Orchard, WA. We left behind subzero, January weather. After the morning fog burned off, it was sunny and in the mid 50's. Our hotel is on the bay and I walked from here to the waterfront park and marina. I filled my eyes with boats, water and the green plants that I won't see in Montana for months. I listened to the sound of the water lapping on the shore, the call of gulls, barks of seals and mournful boat whistles. I wore the expensive red wool jacket that Dad bought as a love gift for Mom and she rejected. I had chili and chai tea in a diner, aptly named "The Hideaway". I was the only customer and there was a television in the corner tuned to soaps. I stood by the water and memorized the mildness of the moment so I can keep it with me in years to come, and I am journaling it here for myself, if no one else.
Port Orchard was discovered by Captain Vancouver and originally named Sidney, after the father of the man who platted it. In the early 1800's canoes were the most convenient way to travel and trade from here, sails and rudders made the trips faster and allowed more passengers, this led to fleets of steamships whose comparative speed got them the nickname "Mosquitoes". Roads made the little boats obsolete, but there is still a foot ferry to Bremerton from here.
The town appears old. There are multistoried houses of all ages and conditions perched on steep hillsides with roads that would be impassable in the winter in icy weather. Except for being on a bay, it reminds me of old mining towns in Montana. This was what I call "a day like a cup of tea", warm, satisfying, perfect. Why am I so surprised that God knows how to make me happy, that He gives me these comforting, memorized moments?
Monday, January 3, 2011
Hitching
I can remember vividly every experience I've had hitchhiking because it only happened once. I was with my husband so it was more like a blind double date. In the passionate poverty days of our early marriage, we bought an ancient, but reconditioned washer and dryer. We were ecstatic. We invited our poor, washerless friends over for dinner and laundry. Unfortunately the washer malfunctioned. Fortunately, the place we bought it from would fix it. Unfortunately, that place was in Missoula. One of our other acquisitions that second year of our moneyless marriage was an ancient, unreconditioned pickup. Reed and I were born in 1956, the Chevy was born in 1954. I didn't distrust it merely because of its age, I was taught to respect my elders, but because you could see the pavement through the floorboards, it wandered all over the road if you managed to exceed 55 m.p.h. and it listed to starboard. But it was a pickup and could hold the washer so we headed from Helena to Missoula.
About 45 miles from Helena the truck started to die. We pulled into a rest area so we could either give it cpr or pronounce it dead. Actually it was the coil that was dead and apparently vehicles need them so we headed to the highway so we could hitchhike to a town and buy another one. We were picked up by a couple in a car that I, with no mechanical ability, could diagnose as having no muffler. The young woman up front turned around looked at my blond, bearded husband, then turned to me and shouted "YOU don't look like a hitchhiker." Apparently I had "virgin hitchhiker" written all over me.
It all turned out well. We got the part, hitched a ride back to our truck with a Wyoming cowboy who had a Stetson rack built into the head liner of his pickup cab. You've got to trust a guy like that. The pickup ran, the washer got fixed, happy ending. Similarly, we haven't picked up many hitchhikers but we have picked up a couple, memorable stranded motorists.
Returning from a trip to Billings a couple years ago I was reading the paper and Reed was looking at the road, which was fortunate because he was driving. The highway was slick with snow. Reed noticed tracks heading into the median, then noticed an SUV lying on its side. We turned around at the nearest "Authorized Use Only" access and stopped at the side of the road. Reed climbed up onto the passenger side of the upturned car and saw a young woman sitting on the inside door. He asked if she wanted to get out. She did. Being uninjured she climbed out, jumped to the ground and sat in our car to get warm. Her jacket and belongings were still in her vertical vehicle so I gave her my coat. The accident had already been called in by other passers by so we waited together for the highway patrol. When we learned Sarah was a student at the U of M in Missoula, we offered to take her there after her car was taken care of. Missoula wasn't on our way home, but neither was it too much out of our way. There were many accidents that morning and we waited for the tow truck for over an hour when the patrolman finally sent us to a truck stop in town. I talked to Sarah's tearful mother on the phone and promised to do for her what I would want someone else to do for my daughter in a similar situation.
In the end Sarah decided to wait for the couple she had been visiting in Wyoming to pick her up and make repair arrangements for her car. We left Sarah in the care of the Town Pump cashier and a nice young man we met at the truck stop. She e-mailed us after she got back to Missoula to arrange to return my coat but we never saw or heard from her. It didn't bother me that I didn't get my jacket back because I had given it to her, she could do with it whatever she pleased.
Our other road refugee was Sean. We were on a little used shortcut near Helena, returning from a trip to Boise when we saw a van with the hood open at the side of the road. The driver was standing next to it, forlornly holding a pair of jumper cables. We turned our Chevy around and Reed jumped his battery. The van started but we noticed in our rearview mirror that it was going very slowly and finally died. We jumped the van again and this time followed him to make sure it kept running. We repeated the process a couple miles further down the road. But the three strikes rule must have applied because it finally died and could not be restarted; we offered him a ride. Sean was working in Helena but lived in Bigfork and had bought the van for his daughter. Reed and Sean pushed the dead van further off the side of the road. Sean grabbed his backpack and the gun he had bought for his son and locked the van.
Even in Montana it's a little odd to let a hitchhiker bring a rifle with him, but it was still in the box and he laid it on top of a rifle Reed had just bought in Boise. If he wanted to rob us he was the world's most inefficient thief, not many people give you three opportunities to get it right. He dropped the rifle at a friend's unlocked, unoccupied home and we dropped him off at a casino to wait for a ride. He thanked us. We wouldn't have left anyone on that deserted stretch of road.
I have a unique perspective on situations like this, helping stranded motorists or homeless boys: I would rather take a loss once in a while than live my whole life as if I already had. Despite opening our vehicle and home to strangers, we have never been robbed or harmed. It is hard to balance being good stewards of the blessings God has given us, with the tendency to guard them so closely that they are unavailable to bless others, to walk the line between safety and selfishness. For now, I choose to be willing to take a risk to make a difference.
About 45 miles from Helena the truck started to die. We pulled into a rest area so we could either give it cpr or pronounce it dead. Actually it was the coil that was dead and apparently vehicles need them so we headed to the highway so we could hitchhike to a town and buy another one. We were picked up by a couple in a car that I, with no mechanical ability, could diagnose as having no muffler. The young woman up front turned around looked at my blond, bearded husband, then turned to me and shouted "YOU don't look like a hitchhiker." Apparently I had "virgin hitchhiker" written all over me.
It all turned out well. We got the part, hitched a ride back to our truck with a Wyoming cowboy who had a Stetson rack built into the head liner of his pickup cab. You've got to trust a guy like that. The pickup ran, the washer got fixed, happy ending. Similarly, we haven't picked up many hitchhikers but we have picked up a couple, memorable stranded motorists.
Returning from a trip to Billings a couple years ago I was reading the paper and Reed was looking at the road, which was fortunate because he was driving. The highway was slick with snow. Reed noticed tracks heading into the median, then noticed an SUV lying on its side. We turned around at the nearest "Authorized Use Only" access and stopped at the side of the road. Reed climbed up onto the passenger side of the upturned car and saw a young woman sitting on the inside door. He asked if she wanted to get out. She did. Being uninjured she climbed out, jumped to the ground and sat in our car to get warm. Her jacket and belongings were still in her vertical vehicle so I gave her my coat. The accident had already been called in by other passers by so we waited together for the highway patrol. When we learned Sarah was a student at the U of M in Missoula, we offered to take her there after her car was taken care of. Missoula wasn't on our way home, but neither was it too much out of our way. There were many accidents that morning and we waited for the tow truck for over an hour when the patrolman finally sent us to a truck stop in town. I talked to Sarah's tearful mother on the phone and promised to do for her what I would want someone else to do for my daughter in a similar situation.
In the end Sarah decided to wait for the couple she had been visiting in Wyoming to pick her up and make repair arrangements for her car. We left Sarah in the care of the Town Pump cashier and a nice young man we met at the truck stop. She e-mailed us after she got back to Missoula to arrange to return my coat but we never saw or heard from her. It didn't bother me that I didn't get my jacket back because I had given it to her, she could do with it whatever she pleased.
Our other road refugee was Sean. We were on a little used shortcut near Helena, returning from a trip to Boise when we saw a van with the hood open at the side of the road. The driver was standing next to it, forlornly holding a pair of jumper cables. We turned our Chevy around and Reed jumped his battery. The van started but we noticed in our rearview mirror that it was going very slowly and finally died. We jumped the van again and this time followed him to make sure it kept running. We repeated the process a couple miles further down the road. But the three strikes rule must have applied because it finally died and could not be restarted; we offered him a ride. Sean was working in Helena but lived in Bigfork and had bought the van for his daughter. Reed and Sean pushed the dead van further off the side of the road. Sean grabbed his backpack and the gun he had bought for his son and locked the van.
Even in Montana it's a little odd to let a hitchhiker bring a rifle with him, but it was still in the box and he laid it on top of a rifle Reed had just bought in Boise. If he wanted to rob us he was the world's most inefficient thief, not many people give you three opportunities to get it right. He dropped the rifle at a friend's unlocked, unoccupied home and we dropped him off at a casino to wait for a ride. He thanked us. We wouldn't have left anyone on that deserted stretch of road.
I have a unique perspective on situations like this, helping stranded motorists or homeless boys: I would rather take a loss once in a while than live my whole life as if I already had. Despite opening our vehicle and home to strangers, we have never been robbed or harmed. It is hard to balance being good stewards of the blessings God has given us, with the tendency to guard them so closely that they are unavailable to bless others, to walk the line between safety and selfishness. For now, I choose to be willing to take a risk to make a difference.
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