From the Mouths of Strangers

Everyday I drive to work and use the back road to get there. Each day I pass a sharp curve in the road with a guard rail, and each day I notice the blue and orange ribbons on the guard rail. I slow down, think about the ambiguous accident the ribbons must represent, and I go on with my day. I have done this everyday that I've driven to work for the last three years. Today, I found out why.

Today was a different day for me. I taught, I held office hours, I grew frustrated with a student, laughed with some coworkers, and left. Today, however, I stayed late to have lunch with a friend of mine, a man I always refer to as Gorgeous (because he is!). We talked and laughed, and overall it was a very enjoyable meal, but the result was that I left work much later than usual. I took my usual route home, thinking all the way how much I wanted to get home in time to rest for just an hour before I picked up Ellie. As the saying goes, we make plans . . . God laughs.

Today I found myself immersed in surprising midday traffic, and when I passed the guard rail with the ribbons I barely glanced over, yet I saw just enough to realize there was a man with the ribbons today. I don't know what compelled me to do this (although I have a guess), but I stopped. I turned my car around, and I returned to the ribbons. As I walked up to the man, he noticed me and offered a greeting. As he did so, he began to cry. I greeted in kind and asked him if he wanted to talk about what brought him there today. His story changed my life.

To protect his identity I will refer to him by his initials, P. J. C. I soon learned that PJC comes to this spot every month, close to the 21st, and puts up fresh ribbons and flowers. On January 21, 2007, PJC and his two sons were on a lengthy and enjoyable motorcycle ride together, partly to rejoice in the fact that they all lived close to each other once again (the oldest son, B. J. C., had just returned to the area two weeks earlier). PJC lead the ride up until they reached the train tracks at the intersection right before the guard rail. As the train neared its end, PJC motioned for BJC to take the lead. He did, but, tragically, he was overzealous in his enthusiasm on an unfamiliar road. He lost control of his bike on the curve, slid along the pavement, and died instantly. PJC and his other son, R. J. C., did everything they could for him, but it was too late. At the young age of twenty-five, BJC died.

I listened to this man talk for two hours about who his son was, what he did with his life, and the miracles the man and his family have experienced since losing their oldest son. He spoke of yellow butterflies representing lost loved ones in his wife's family, and as he did so, two yellow butterflies came to our spot on the road. He spoke of numbers representing importance in his family and reappearing in various parts of their lives. He spoke of favored songs played in unlikely places, best friends and former bosses offering tributes, former girlfriends coming from near and far, all to help remember and honor his son. As he spoke, I found myself caught up in the story he had to offer about bereavement and loss turning to hope and faith.

I don't mean for this story to sound overly sentimental and optimistic. PJC and his wife are far from "over" their son's death, and he said with some confidence that he will still be on the side of the road around this time next month. However, he will do so knowing his son is in Heaven and he is there for a reason. After he finished, he asked what brought me to this spot, and so I offered minimal details of my own story. We connected, this stranger and I, and we don't even know each other. We shared stories, we cried, and then we parted ways with only the promise of prayers for each other's future.

To many, this story will seem overly trite and unlikely. To others it may seem like a foolish decision to stop on a highway to speak to a strange man. Still others will see this story as evidence of His work as they already know is likely to happen. To me and to him, PJC, it's another day, another moment to grieve, and another person to share an experience we can only pray will remain a mystery to our well-intentioned friends and family. And it's another reason to thank Him for the strange and unexpected gifts He brings to our lives, including this experience.