I dread the drive north. So close to Christmas, I will encounter challenging road conditions, and although former Buffalonians never lose their mad snow driving skills, I do not want to put those skills to the test my last weekend of spiritual direction training. Two tunnels into West Virginia, I count myself lucky – no snow despite the sun behind the coal-gray mountains. I hum Christmas carols to soothe my anxiety as I snake my way through the twists and turns taking me to Charleston. Near Paint Creek a caravan of semi-trucks grinds to a halt, and I watch drivers jump out of their cabs. Confused and concerned, I pull over and join the drivers dressed in wrinkled blue jeans, flannel shirts, Carhartt jackets, and woolen caps stretched down over their ears.
As if on cue, the drivers begin running in circles, arms spread wide, heads tilted upward, mouths wide open trying to catch snowflakes on their wagging tongues. Their laughter fills the skies as snowflakes dance around these road-weary long-haul drivers. Minutes later, one of them stops to catch his breath and spots me. “Hey lady!” he calls. “Look up! We got us an angel showering us with lil’ bits of heaven!” I smile and walk toward the group that is now edging closer to the side of the road. We stand in silence as snowflakes lit from behind by street lights, pillow artlessly, silently into the slow-moving creek in the valley below us.
I feel a gentle touch on my arm as the driver nearest me whispers in a husky, awe-filled voice, “‘Bout as close to heaven as we’re gonna get, don’tcha think?”
“I do,” I say with a smile. The drivers huddle closer. “Listen, lady,” one of them says. “You follow us, and we’ll keep you safe.”
“Yeah,” another agrees. “These mountain roads can get real icy real fast, and it’s pitch dark. I seen yur Georgia license.”
The drivers head back to their trucks, climb into their cabs like a well-rehearsed line of Rockette dancers, open their windows and watch me walk to my car. “One of them, his face shrouded in shadow, leans out and reassures me, “Consider us yur angels, lady, keepin’ you safe to wherever yur goin’.” He considers this promise for a moment. “And where would that be?”
“Charleston,” I shout as I maneuver my car between the two last trucks. Accompanied by strangers along a deserted highway to Almost Heaven, I sing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs, grateful for 18-wheeler angels.
Rev. Dr. Rindy Trouteaud is a transplanted Northerner who served Presbyterian churches in Georgia for more than three decades. She currently volunteers to administer the WVIS Facebook page.
Make your plans to visit Charleston for an Almost Heaven Retreat. Learn more at https://www.wvis.org/retreats/ignatian-silent-directed-retreat