The Last Straw

I wondered about that meal – what he ate, what he was thinking at the time, what he was doing. I can see him sitting there in his work truck, by himself, pulling in for a quick lunch at the local Sonic in a small town. He may have had the radio on, listening to Paul Harvey or some country music station. He was probably thinking about what his crews were doing or not doing and the delivery he needed to make to them. He may have thought how he was going to collect some money from someone slow at paying their bill. He may have thought about his life and how proud he was of his kids and grandkids – his posterity. He may have been contemplating how Roy Williams bolted for North Carolina and rejected the Kansas faithful – wondering what would happen to his beloved Jayhawks. He might have been letting his mind run in the chatter of the day. I will never know. I see his rough, loving hand slide the straw in the visor, thinking perhaps he would need it in the future. I see him eating his meal in haste and then leaving to continue his work.

I loaned the truck to a friend with the stipulation to bring it back clean and filled up but to not throw away the straw that was in the visor. When I went by yesterday to see if I had left something in it I was looking for, I noticed that the straw had been used. I wasn’t angry, though I tried to muster up some anger. I wasn’t disappointed that my friend had disregarded my instructions. It wasn’t an earth shaking experience. I sat there in that seat for a few minutes thinking about Dad sitting there in that seat three years ago eating his meal and thinking. It was a feeling of melancholy and nostalgia.

Grief is a funny thing. It strikes at the oddest moments and stirs at the slightest breathe of wind. It is Father’s design to help us process life. Here, a month before the third year anniversary of his death I am still grieving with a subtle experience to assist in the loss of my dad. I believe it is impossible for us to experience the full loss all at once. Our souls can’t take the pain so it gives it to us small portions at a time until it is fully processed. I’ve had hundreds of such experiences. If we accept the process then we don’t get stuck in the past and form dysfunctional ways of looking at life.

Even as I was writing, Babe came in and asked what I was doing. As I was conveying this story, I teared up. Strange…this grief thing. I know that in reality, this is not the last straw.