The Wife of My Youth

Traveler’s Tip #340
If you see an overlook beside the road, pull off and look back. It’s good to see where you’ve traveled. But when you’re done, don’t forget to get back in the truck and start driving again. The road ahead holds great things…
 
 
Conversation with the clerk at the hardware store today–
 
            “I know your name. I think saw you on TV,” she says.
            “Was it America’s Most Wanted?” I reply.
            “Nope. Don’t think so.”
            “You might be getting me mixed up with Brad Pitt. That happens a lot.”
            I think this is clever—she apparently doesn't.
            “I think you were playing music,” she says.
            Ah! Fanning the old ego flame… I stand a little taller. “Could be. I’m a songwriter.”
            She squints at me then goes back to ringing me up. “Nah. I’m probably wrong. And it definitely wasn’t Brad Pitt.”
            I take my light bulb and receipt and slip back into the faceless masses.
 
God always has a way of reminding us of our place in the grand scheme of things.
 
So there are a lot of good detailed blogs out there. Heady spiritual stuff and nonstop political insight to chill our bones as we navigate these troubled times. Read them, and make no mistake the days are dark. But here’s a little tidbit of good news to lift your day – A light has come into the world and the darkness cannot overpower it! The Living God is on the throne and we can belong to Him. Aren’t you glad?
 
He gives good gifts to men.
 
So I want to write about my wife…
 
We’re back out on the road next week, blowing by the ghost of Custer and the glory of Rushmore on the way east. Cornfields and oilfields, truck stops and rib joints (Kansas City)—look out Midwest here we come. Michelle Storm will be with me and it feels like Christmas in September. It’s funny how the miles don’t seem as long when home tags along with you. Twenty-six years now we’ve shared this married E-ticket ride. Clinging to the safety bar of our wonderful, traditional (oh relax) rollercoaster life we’ve had each other’s backs through blue sky and some pretty good blows. I’m happy to say as we hoist sail for this leg of the voyage the winds are fair and coming in off the beam.
 
Yesterday we cycled through the North Idaho hills in our standard yo-yo fashion. I fly past her going down—and she leaves me in the dust going up. This is due to a well-known but rarely mentioned property of physics called The Law of Tonnage. In the science books it’s right next to another law that states—A body in motion tends to seek out the nearest couch. Isn’t it the way of things? You pull and push each other along, doing the best you can, until one day you look around, half stunned by the sudden calm in the tempest, and find your kids have become beautiful adults, you have the best daughter-in-law in the world, the seas have settled, and you’re still holding hands with your best friend.
 
God has given us a great love story. Maybe my place here in the masses isn’t so bad. I don’t have to be recognized at the hardware store to be worthwhile. I’m famous to Him. And to my wife—she also has a way of reminding me of my place in the scheme of things. She makes me The Miracle Man.
 
 
Yes, it’s God who gives good gifts to men. He insists on blessings I don’t deserve and  Michelle Storm is undeniable proof to the doubter. I shake my head at the hecklers, insistent in their demand that God doesn’t exist. From my vantage point—this gravel overlook beside the road—they might as well step out of an airplane laughing at the ignorance of all us hillbillies who still claim to believe in the archaic idea of gravity.
 
Not me, friends. I’ll tag along with Jesus. He’s a good and gracious pilot. And I’ll thank Him every step of the way for the flashlight he shines on my path. In a few days He, Michelle and I will head for Middle America and, let me tell you, a three-strand cord is not easily broken. He’ll do amazing things. We’ll watch and cheer Him on.
 
Look for our headlights. They’ll be there. Don’t forget to wave.
 
And when we stop for the night I’ll be a thousand miles from my house, but not from my home. My wife will be sleeping by my side, and my own porch-light will be shining right outside the motel room door.
 
Fair winds, pilgrims—see you on the road.
 
Hopelessly in love with the wife of my youth,
 
Buck
 

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