Saturday, October 5, 2013

Fellow Travelers

"Supporter of Israel," the large, blue-and-white bumper sticker proclaimed. We had stopped for gasoline coming home from Tennessee the other day and noticed a very dirty car with a taped-up, broken tail light cover. A young man of possibly 19 wearing a knit cap was putting gas into it. He was pleasant-looking with a ready smile as my husband engaged him in conversation.

"So you support Israel," Howard ventured, to which the youth agreed, saying it was especially true of his parents. Howard asked where he was from, and the boy said Nashville.

"Are you a professional musician?" my inquiring spouse, who never meets a stranger, asked when he saw musical instruments in the open trunk. He said yes, and when Howard asked where he worked, to his surprise, the guy answered, "The Grand Ole Opry."

Eyeing the 5-string banjo in the trunk, my curious husband said, "How about letting me hear a few runs?" The young man agreeably plinked out a tune, much to Howard's admiration. There's nothing he likes better than banjo music. After they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Howard wished him much success, we drove off.

"He must not be too successful, judging by his car," I commented.

"Well, maybe he hasn't made the big time yet," my music lover conceded amiably. We mused about the optimism of youth, and concluded that he was probably having the time of his life working in back-up for some famous names.

A couple of hundred miles later, inclement weather and bad driving conditions forced us to get off the interstate at the first motel we came to, to spend the night. We noticed a new bicycle parked at one of the rooms, and as we were loading the car the next morning, I heard Howard talking to someone. I looked and saw a rather scrawny man with a lined, weathered face guiding the loaded-down bicycle and fiddling with the back wheel.

"What was that all about?" I asked Howard when he got in the car. It seems the guy had bought the bike at Walmart shortly before, and they hadn't tightened the wheel bolts properly. Howard said the guy didn't have a wrench. "Do you have one?" I asked. He said he did, and got out and helped the stranger, letting him keep the wrench.

"I prayed with him," Howard said. "He is on his way to Missouri to find work and said he can ride 50 miles a day." He had come from Chattanooga, several hundred miles back. Evidently his old bike gave out. "He said a preacher had helped him and got him the motel room," Howard volunteered.

"After I prayed for him, he said, 'The Lord's been good to me,' and pulled a large, silver cross on a chain out of his shirt." We didn't envy him his journey, especially with the barrage of trucks and traffic, but he would have taken state roads rather than the interstate.

These chance meetings along the road reminded me that there are all kinds of people, young and old, traveling life's highway. A friendly word or a helpful hand given along the way can only enrich one, giving a glimpse into the lives of others. Like the old song sung by the late Jimmy Dean, "If I can help somebody along the way, then my living will not be in vain!"

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