Room in the Truck
There are so many ways to travel...horseback, plane, bicycle, train, subway, taxi, car and then the favorite for rural Wyoming folks ... the truck. Of course we fight over the comparable value of Chevys and Fords, but given the choice we'd climb in any old pick-up for an important journey before settling into just about any other mode of transportation. A truck will get you there.
And so begins my journey, a journey back to a place that awakened my love of adventure and appreciation for people...all sorts of people. It's a perplexing journey to the Philippines, a land I visited in 1987 when I was young and thought I had some amazing, American truth to share with the world but discovered the world had some amazing truths to share with me and that I needed the world more than maybe the world needed me. So my Teachers for Global Classrooms appointment to the Philippines took me by surprise. Back to the Philippines? hmmmm? huh? sigh.
Yes. Back to the Philippines but first my inaugural journey to our nation's capitol. Shyly I boarded a plane feeling very alone leaving my comfy country home for a bustling metropolitan conference filled with strangers who I was certain were more professional, more experienced, and higher caliber than me. I was not so certain I would fit in the blend of educators waiting at the end of the runway and a shuttle drive, but I did. Beautiful, caring professionals met me at the Fairmont and welcomed not just me but my ideas and my people into their conversation. They made room for me and I began what turned out to be a very long journey home.
After an uneventful flight to Denver, I was greeted by a plane full of unhappy passengers who discovered along with me that our flight home was canceled. I weighed my options and headed to wait on the standby list for a flight to the nearest airport to my home. That wait left me flightless and motelless, so I bedded down in a quiet spot at the airport and woke to standby some more. Finally, I was on a plane to a destination two hours from my home with several others who would be two hours from their destination. It was storming back home and the roads were precarious at best.
As I deboarded the plane and walked down the stairs to the baggage area, I was greeted by a young marine with a camo cap and cowboy boots. The generous hearted 24 year old had driven on ice to come get me and was already tossing bags and extra passengers into his truck for the 2 hour journey back. This dear lady who I had just met stood near me in shock as the rental car company told her that it would cost $400 to rent a vehicle to drive to my home town. The Ford already had four adults and a teenage girl packed in it, but the young man approached the lady with a grin. "It doesn't make sense for you pay $400 when we are going to the same place and have all this room," he said pointing to the 8 inches of seat still vacant in his truck if we slid together. She handed him her suitcase. He tossed it in the back and she slid in beside me. Knees scrunched almost to our chins we settled in for a bumpy ride filled with stories and the generosity of strangers.
And I thought about my upcoming journey. Yes, there is room in the truck for strangers and time in the journey for stories, lots of stories. Even in the homogenous, rural area where I live there is room in the truck for perspectives that are not our own and for a world of people with valuable stories, identities, and contributions. There is room in the truck as we embark.
