I believe in all sorts of miraculous, amazing things. I don’t talk often about most of that stuff, mainly because I don’t want the men in white coats carting me off to the looney bin. But considering this Blog is all about visions, miracles and amazing things, I figure I can share openly here. And hopefully no one will cart me off.
This happened last week:
I was driving home after covering an event for the Scio News (I’m a freelance writer, reporter and photographer). I took the back roads, as I do when time allows. A log truck was heading north. I was heading south. It was a sunny day and I couldn’t see the truck driver for the glare on his windshield. But the man in the passenger seat I could see. He raised his hand in greeting, palm facing himself, fingers half crooked.
It was my dad’s big-knuckled, backwards wave. My Dad’s thin, old man frame.
My first thought was what is my dad doing in the passenger seat? He’s always the driver. It was a funny way for my chain of thoughts to begin, considering my dad died a year ago, almost to the day. He was 83.
Tears sprang to my eyes.
I thought about turning around, speeding after the log truck. Part of me wanted to see if there really were two people inside the cab. But a bigger part of me was just thankful for the reminder. For the love that reminder brought, and the memories. And that bigger part of me won. I kept driving. Tears kept welling. And I said aloud, “Hi dad. I love you, too.”
And, as god, or the universe – however you choose to view it – seems to work, here is the scene that was happening as I was writing this post:
My two young sons, ages three and five, sat on my office floor, petting our marmalade-colored cat, Butter. The older son was “teaching” his younger
brother about life and death.
“Hear him purring?” Son number one said to son number two. “That’s because he’s alive. If his heart stopped, then he would stop purring and he would die. But don’t worry. He would have to get really, really old, like Grandpa Clyde.”
Again the tears welled, blurring my computer screen. But they are good tears. Tears of memories, love, and appreciation for the passenger in that log truck who lifted his hand to greet me.
As for my dad, Clyde Jefferson — he drove loaded truck over the Cascade Mountain Pass until he was 81.
Have any of you experienced a similar vision of a loved one after they’re gone?