It was a cold day in April, 1987, and I was driving north on I-35 from Wichita to Des Moines, Iowa. The temperature must have been in the 20s, and the wind was strong and gusty. The trees were swaying and cars were moving side-to-side on the highway. Even a few minutes outside was bone-chilling.
About 10 miles north of Liberty, Missouri I saw a man walking on the side of the highway. I stopped to give him a ride. Slowly and steadily he walked toward my car; there was a broad grin on his unshaven face.
He informed me that he had been walking for the past eight hours—since midnight. He was grateful for the ride, even though he was now only eight miles from his destination.
I had barely dropped him off when I saw another person seeking a ride. He turned out to be a clean-cut, tall, handsome person in his late 20s. His name was Bob. He had driven to Texas to see his girlfriend, ran out of money, sold his car, and was returning to Minnesota. He had walked for six hours that day before getting this ride.
He told me that he had grown up on a farm in Minnesota and had always thought that he would be a farmer. Now, since farming was dead, he was trying to find himself. Not knowing what he wanted to do in life, he signed up to go to Vietnam, where he served as a medic. He was now suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Invariably, he told me, he woke up with the same nightmare: His unit arrives at a Vietnamese village where American soldiers have been injured. He rushes to a badly injured patient in need of immediate medical attention. He opens his bag and finds it empty. Then he hears the shrieks of the patient, which wakes him up in cold sweat, realizing that he was the one shrieking. “I can no longer go to sleep during the night, concentrate on anything and form any relationships. That was the reason things did not work out with my girlfriend,” Bob told me.
Bob continued to share some aspects of his life as our car sliced through the cold wind on the plains of northern Missouri. He told me that this was the first time he had hitchhiked. He had never given rides to hitchhikers himself, but this experience had taught him to be far more generous in the future. He repeated that statement several times as if to make sure he would never forget it. This trip had been an eye-opener for him.
In my mind’s eye, I tried to imagine how, racing along in his heated car, listening to the loud noise of rock music and engrossed in worldly thoughts, Bob must have always flown past the hitchhiking “miserable lot.” I wondered if he had ever given them a second thought.
I glanced at Bob. His face was solemn. I felt I had a sense of how he might be feeling. I also seemed to have a sense of how different his feelings would be from only a few weeks ago, when he drove on that very highway toward Texas. He might have said of someone with his thumbs up, “These are lazy bums.”
Bob also must have justified his attitude toward the hitchhikers in the name of security. Do we worship security rather than God? Do we sacrifice our humanity on the altar of safety? Do we fly past the reality of life like blind robots?
As we passed the exit to the small town of Bethany, we saw another person wanting a ride.
“Would it be OK with you, if we take him also?” I inquired.
Bob nodded his head to give his approval and, as we pulled over, he briskly opened the door to the passenger side and jumped out to help the stranger squeeze his duffle bag in the rear seat.
I was struck with the similarity of Bob’s duffle bag and that of the newcomer. I think Bob was also impressed, for he immediately proceeded to tell the new addition to our traveling crew that he, too, was a hitchhiker and asked him how long he had been waiting for a ride.
The newcomer’s name was Bill. He had received a ride up to Bethany the night before. He had been waiting for four hours on the highway to get a ride. Interesting combination, I thought: eight hours, six hours and now four hours.
Bill continued to tell his story. He had been in a small town in Tennessee when the police arrested him for hitchhiking and locked him up for the weekend. It was the first such experience for him, “being thrown in with cockroaches and all,” he explained.
Upon reaching Bethany, Bill had called the police to find out if he could get some shelter at the Salvation Army. The police officer suggested he spend the night at a local laundromat run by an elderly couple who would not mind. The police officer apologized that there was no other shelter in their small town and told Bill that he wished that the town had some budget to put him up in the motel for the night.
In the morning, the owner of the laundromat woke him up saying, “Son, time to wake up.” Plus he gave Bill a dollar for a cup of coffee.
Upon hearing the story, I felt my eyes had moistened and I had to wipe my nose. I was touched beyond words. Treva had sent a couple of sandwiches and a couple of pieces of fruit with me. I asked Bill to hand me the sack from the back of the car. I offered it to Bill and Bob, who ate in silence until Bob said, “Best meal I have ever had.”
Then he turned around and said to Bill, “I have met more interesting people on this trip as a hitchhiker than I had met all my life on the farm. This trip has been an eye-opener for me.”
On my way back home a couple of days later, I made a point to stop in Bethany. I wanted to meet the owner of the laundromat. Fortunately, he was there when I arrived. He was fixing a machine near the door and saw me drive up. Reverentially, I stood there in silence, for I was in the presence of my hero.
“Car trouble?” he inquired with a broad smile on his face. I simply shook my head to say “no.”
“If you have no troubles, then you won’t stick around here too long.” He said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
I wished I did not have to say anything. I was there simply to touch him. Words stopped in my throat and I could not speak. I tried, but the emotions were choking me. Anticipating that he may not be there, I had written a small note for the owner. And sure enough, this was the time for me to hand over the note.
The old man, dressed in khaki trousers, a jacket, and a baseball cap, looked down with piercing eyes through his lenses of bifocals and read the note quickly. He had nothing to say, as he handed the note back to me. I stood there and looked at him. He sensed my discomfort and tried to make some small talk. “Yes, I remember that young man. He was a good person. Glad he got a ride.”
The interview was over. Neither of us had anything more to say. I extended my right hand and we shook hands. His grip was firm and strong. I handed the note back to him and, as I turned around to leave, I saw that he did not know what to do with it..
As I started back toward the highway, I thought to myself that I had just met The Man and hoped that I would one day meet him again when I, too, am old—perhaps in some inner part of myself.
Soon there was a road sign, reminding me that I was in Bethany. “How appropriate,” I gently whispered to myself.
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