Thankfulness, Part Eight

Thankfulness -- Part Eight -- Along this Highway

Along this Highway

A couple of years ago, while driving back from Massachusetts, I stopped at a rest area for food and a break. As I was eating, I noticed a man sitting next to me whose physical appearance could best be described as a traveled warrior. I was cautious, avoiding any lingering eye contact, though, I was struck by the irony in my behavior. In my life work, I encourage people to smile and say hello to those they do not know, because it is a simple gesture that potentially contains profound effects. Yet, something, perhaps instinctual, was holding me back from pursuing this creed. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I obeyed it. Still, I was left with an unsettling debate between my conscience and my behavior. My conscience was lovingly chiding me, "Be careful of becoming a phony."

Within a few minutes of me sitting down, the man next to me, spoke up. I don't remember his exact first words, but I felt an immediate release from my leery position. We ended up speaking for about 20 minutes. He just started opening up about his life.

He drove tractor trailer trucks for a living, and had seen most of the US in his travels. Because of my frequent travel schedule, we compared and shared stories about highways and hidden gems. He relayed to me about the toll that such travel placed on him and his family. At the time of our meeting, he revealed that he only saw his family three to four times a year. He was married for the second time, and had two children from that marriage. He took a deep breath, then he self-disclosed further.

His first marriage was a disaster. He confessed that he was extremely violent and volatile towards both his first wife and their three children. He admitted that during that relationship he was a nasty man who would often viciously beat and break the bones of those he "loved". He regretted ever being that man, and continued to live with remorse for the pain he inflicted and the lives he ruined. His ex-wife and their children no longer spoke to him.

In his second marriage, he worked hard to change the man he was. He learned calming techniques and communication skills. And by his own admission, he never placed his hands violently on either his second wife or their children.

(On a side note, I realized that my initial hesitancy had much to do with instinctively identifying his violent past. As a survivor of a violent childhood, I often see elements of my father in men who struggle with their rage as well.)

At some point, he asked me what I did for a living. I tried to explain the creation I bring to the stage. I am uncertain about the words I used in my description, but I do remember telling him that I try to help people to realize the brevity of their lives.

I saw the man perk up, and I saw his eyes start to glisten. Immediately, I thought about some lyrics from a Bill Morrissey song called, ‘Barstow’: "I can see his eyes, and they shine like brake lights. And I am grateful, I cannot see mine."

He spoke with a distance that I can only describe as a levy barely suitable to hold at bay any further emotions. He shrugged, then said, "I understand little about what you actually do, but I agree that our lives are short." He paused, then took a deeper plunge. "Last year I was driving my rig in Ohio. It was late, and I was talking to a buddy of mine who was also a truck driver. He was driving through some icy mountains in West Virginia, and we were keeping each other awake on our CBs. At one point, he says to me, 'Holy S***!' I said, 'What?' He then said, 'I just hit an ice patch and my truck just flew off this mountain. Tell my wife and children that I love them.' I heard a loud sound, then nothing. So, yeah, you never know when it’s your time. I agree with you on that one."

I was moved, honored, and somewhat surprised by this man's confessional. It was refreshingly brave and possessed a vulnerability that is not often experienced in our brief, passerby interactions. In truth, many of us do not experience it in most of our relationships, regardless of the level of intimacy. I felt alive and deeply connected to him. I knew I would never see him again, but I was glad that I got to see and meet him.

What I do know now is our communion enabled me to see the person, not the abuser; I saw the fragile man who shared conversation and connection with me. He allowed me to be part priest, part therapist, and fully human.

I drove home that day with my eyes wide open, my heart full, and a gratefulness that most often only gets revealed through death. So, I thank you, my friend, wherever you are, wherever you may travel, for giving to me the gift of kinship, for breaking the barrier of strangers, and making me more alive.