The thing is, I fell in love with my husband sitting side-by-side on the tailgate of this truck, watching the stars, parked down in his valley in Arkansas. We drove away from our wedding in this truck, tin cans dragging behind the bumper. He taught me how to drive a stick-shift in this truck, in the hilly campus town of Fayetteville. I drove this truck from Kentucky to Arkansas barely pregnant with the baby we lost, pulling off at a Cracker Barrel to buy a vanilla taffy and a cream soda to quell my morning sickness. I lost the baby a week later. We hauled Christmas trees in this truck, camping gear, and our household furniture each time we moved. So when it came time to sell everything we owned and move to East Asia, we couldn't quite part with the truck.
Graciously, Lydia and John agreed to hang on to it for us, with the intention of giving it back to us upon our return to the States.
That was eight years ago, and the truth is becoming clear: we aren't returning to the States. (At least not any time soon). Maybe that is why I wept, more than the loss of the only piece of property we've ever owned. Maybe I wept because we aren't going back.
But then, there is no going back.
Because what I'm really mourning isn't the loss of a dream, or the loss of a truck, but the loss of time. The fact is the truck, sold or not sold, isn't worth much anymore. Time got the better of it.
Which brings me to the thought that finally stopped my tears: I still have the man who drove that truck! And the life we have together is better than I dreamed of.
And frankly, if people like us didn't do what we do, the 600 college students who heard about Him last semester...well...they wouldn't have.
That's worth a truck.
Us in our truck, newly married. |
Just married. He'd just helped up into the truck when this pic was taken. |