Big Red Truck #2

The second big red truck in my life came about twenty years later. My husband, who had been walking across the road to medical school classes for two years, needed a vehicle to get across town for his clinical rotations. One of our criteria was six seats, if possible; our current Taurus sat only five, and that meant we couldn't include my mother on family outings. Hubs traveled two hours to visit the used lot where we bought the Taurus, near where we lived before. We trusted the owner, had known him before we even knew he sold cars.

He came back with a 1996 red Toyota T-100. Incredible. The kids were ecstatic. Dad was pretty happy, too. I was pleased with the six seats of course, but was skeptical of its age. Wasn't a '96 pretty old? "It's a Toyota," handsome Hubs said, confidently. "It will outlast the Taurus." Also, initially, I couldn't get over its size. After all, what were we playing at — what med student needs a farm truck for a 10 minute commute?

A med student who is also a husband and a son-in-law and a father of three active children, it turns out. And what we've been playing at is fun, when Hubs has us out for a ride, and the back is full of fishing poles, or bicycles, or our first real Christmas tree, or new (to us!) furniture. Even parked, the truck has been fun year-round: a snow-pit for the kids during their first big snow, a safe place to lie back and watch summer fireworks, a receptacle for Hubs' "science projects" (decomposing apple cores and banana peels), and a cool spot for the kids to gather with neighborhood friends.

Compared to my grandfather's shiny beauty, this truck could use some attention. Don't get me wrong - the body is in good condition, but the paint job has lost its luster and gained a well-loved rubbed look. I suspect that Hubs, in his secret self, likes driving around this symbol of American manhood. As an African missionary kid, I know he likes its practicality. But it can't hurt to feel like he fits in. For me, when I've driven it around town for whatever reason (which isn't often), I've garnered approving looks from truck-driving men. I have to admit that I enjoy wearing the tough-country-farm-chick persona for just a few minutes.

Big red truck #2 has driven the miles to a new state and a medical residency, and is sitting outside our townhouse. The engine roars at 5 am when Hubs leaves for rounds, and although I know he's waking the neighbors, the sound comforts me. The truck is working to carry him through another day, until he can be back home with us.

Big Red Truck #1

Happiness is . . . a big red truck.

I have had meaningful relationships with two pickup trucks in my life - and they have both been red. This must mean something . . . Oh, and it's probably significant that they each belong to one of the most important men in my life.

The first one I will describe with a poem inspired by William Carlos Williams' "Red Wheelbarrow":

Red Pickup Truck

so many smiles

began

with the red

pickup truck

glazed with white

sunshine

beside my grand

father.

My grandfather loved that truck. It was a brand-new Scottsdale, the pride of his retirement. He must have washed and waxed it regularly, because it shone spotless every time I saw it. I can still see him leaning his tall frame against it, horn-rimmed glasses above an amused half-smile, soft flannel shirt, and a leather belt with a large gold rectangular buckle securing gently worn blue jeans.

He would open the passenger door and lift me up with both hands. The tan cloth seat was always clean and ready for me to ride. Just me and Grandpa, off to pick up dinner during one of my visits to see him and Grandma. We didn't have to talk, either one of us. It was enough to share the smooth ride, way up there above the road, and the important task of bringing back something good. Sometimes it was McDonalds, where we'd always pick up the featured Peanuts tumbler or B.C. cereal bowl; our other favorite was Kentucky Fried Chicken, always Original because that's all they had then. We were always successful. We were always friends.

Lord Have Mercy

I can hear the chant echo in the cloisters of my brain:

Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison
Christe, eleison. Christe, eleison.
Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison.

I know I'm supposed to be talking about light, but if I don't describe the darkness, you won't know what the light means to me.

My mother's mental illness has come to a crisis point, again. Each time more damage is done. Over twenty years of voices, medications, side effects, losses, and relocations is taking its toll. The beast in her brain has transfigured itself, escaping the rusting chains of once-effective medications. She is refusing to take the new ones that could help. She is refusing to sign paperwork that would allow people to help her. That would allow her to have a place to live where she would be cared for.

She is beginning to let the beast take over; I'm afraid it will destroy her. She thinks I am out to get her; I'm afraid she will shut me out.

I assigned a harsh ringer to her number on my cell phone. This way, if I am with my children, I know not to answer the phone.

I have learned through painful experience how my mother's phone calls can affect me.

For the past several days, I have been feeling blank, shocked about the nightmare that she is in. Too shocked to sit down and pray, even. I should take the time to be in the Lord's presence, but I'm too agitated. Day to day, her story changes. I whirl between cautious optimism to bewilderment to despair to guilt to anger to depression to fear to pain to helplessness.

My soul cries out. The Spirit resurrects a rich memory from the masses of my early childhood.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace.

This is all I know to say. This is all I have the strength for. Light of the World, help me. Help her.

Help us all.

My Toes Have Brains

My children are a continual source of brightness in my life. Busyness, yes; concern, yes; but mostly brightness.

My youngest is five going on six, but most strangers guess that he is four. This doesn't phase him at all, because he consistently and cheerfully charms the socks off adults, especially ladies. For example, just a few weeks ago we were at a physician's departmental holiday drop-in, our first such appearance as a new resident family. Feeling awkward, I sad down with him on a red leather sofa, monitoring his water bottle. Within seconds, he was grinning coyishly at an obviously captivated middle-aged lady on the opposite couch. "Better watch out," I quipped jokingly to her bemused companion. So, let's call him Charmer.

Well, Charmer is a cheerful guy, like I said. His normal volume is loud. I think he'd be great in theater or opera someday. Anyway, one day he was sitting next to me at the Dining Room Table Theater, legs happily bouncing, humming a little tune. Even his toes were moving this way and that. He articulated, "My toes have their own brains."

"What, honey?"

"My toes have little brains in them. They are just moving and moving and telling themselves to move; I'm not doing it!"

We both looked under the table, smiling at his super-active toes.

"Wow, honey, they certainly look like it!"

I'm still smiling. Charmer had brains in his toes for days.

The Daisy

The daisy is my favorite flower. Several years ago was my last visit to my hometown. I bought a bunch of daisies at the local flower shop from a man who happened to go to high school with my father. He didn't know that my dad had died. After I told him what the flowers were for, he told me a story about going with my dad to see the Marine recruiter, and how the recruiter wouldn't talk to my dad until he had hung by his fingers from the doorjamb for three minutes. Then, flummoxed, he gave me extra daisies at no charge.

I finally found the flat bronze headstone in the Veterans section of the cemetery; it was the first time I had taken my children there. It started to rain. My husband saw there was no vase for the flowers and, silently, used the pointed end of the black umbrella to poke a hole in the sacred earth. He took the younger ones away; oldest, then still tiny herself, insisted on staying. She cried because I was crying. Her little hand was a comfort to me. The rain mixed with my tears as I introduced my father to his grandchildren. The daisies were bright against the grass. I was happy that I could leave them there.

Only very recently did I read that the word "daisy" comes from the Old English doeges eage - "day's eye." What a beautiful metaphor for a flower that resembles the sun, and like the sun unfolds from the earth in rebirth every morning. That day years ago, I think I felt this meaning in my heart. You see, my father's special song to me as a child was "You Are My Sunshine" - we would sing it back and forth to each other as a game. Skies must have gotten too gray for him when I was nine years old and he took his life. That day in the rain, I gave him a bouquet of sunshine amid tears of love. I hope it was enough.