The Canadian Prairie has an abundance of long straight roads, usually a pleasure to drive. But numerous white crosses stand beside them, mute testimony to opposite moments. Sometimes the crosses sprout in multiples, chilling reminders of life’s fragility.
Nevertheless, most prairie people think nothing of commuting long distances. To work, to school, the lake or office. To and from the farm and the city. That’s life here, and life, no matter where you live, comes with risk, often in the form of a ribbon of highway.
Fairly straight and undivided, Highway #9 is the busiest north/south route in Eastern Saskatchewan. I drive it every workday, fifteen kilometers each way. So do many neighbours and friends.
Twice each school day, our son-in-law’s schoolbus laps up those kilometres. Our daughter, her van usually full of grandbeans, drives into the city almost daily. Dear friends live on that road too. I figure that almost hourly someone we love travels old #9 at a killing speed, if forced to stop suddenly.
Yesterday morning, as I left the office for an appointment on the other side of town, I drove past the city police station. Suddenly several uniformed officers dashed out of the building and leapt into their cars. Sirens blaring and lights flashing, they sped through a red light and headed up Highway 9. An ambulance joined them.
As the lights faded into the distance, my prayer followed. “Lord, attend that emergency, and may those involved sense your presence.”
I heard what happened later. Moments before I’d seen the police, a vehicle travelling south lost control while passing a semi and collided with a north-bound pick-up. One person died at the scene. Another white cross to plant.
The Preacher and I have a neighbor we value. When we see him working or playing with his kids, kidding with his buddies, buzzing around on his construction equipment or taking a smoke out on the porch, we wave. Call “Hi,” or walk over and talk, often to ask for his assistance. His prints are all over our house. Just this morning I tried counting the things he’s fixed, built, shingled, dug, lifted, excavated, drilled or driven. I couldn’t. There are too many.
Someone didn’t make it home yesterday. My heart aches for those left behind. Our neighbor spent a few hours at the hospital, but he did come home. His wife still has a husband, and their children still have a dad. They just don’t have that truck anymore. The one he was driving when the southbound vehicle hit. But what’s a truck, anyway, compared to a life? He shouldn’t be alive today, but God had a different plan, and we’re glad.
Friend Jesus, comfort those who grieve today. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Remind us that even greater than the risk of fast highways is that of refusing to make room for you as we travel life’s road. And by the way of your cross, lead gently to our eternal home.
