Grant’s Truck
We pulled into the garage of the house we’d lived in when he died. There it was, parked as it had been the night the police officer drove it back and parked it there. The baby instantly recognized it. “Daddy’s truck is here!” he said, then… “is daddy here?” Nope, daddy’s not here. Daddy died. That conversation again.
We got out of the car, after 4 hours on the road with 4 little boys. They were wired, ready to get back to playing here at this fun house daddy bought just so he could go flying. And that’s what killed him. For a moment I hated that house. They ran off inside to look around and remember where they’d once lived. I stood there in the garage, looking at the truck. That truck that hadn’t moved for 2 months. It just sat there. Nobody drove it. I remember Grant climbing into that truck with enthusiasm for life.
On his way somewhere exciting and always with a big smile. That’s what he was doing every time he jumped into the truck. Now it just sat there, nobody drove it, it felt lonely, like me. He bought it 8 months before he died. It was the first “fun toy” he’d ever bought. Not because he needed it, because he wanted it.
It took him months before he’d even let me drive it. Then the first time I drove it I teased him, “how does this thing work?” As if I didn’t know how to drive a vehicle. I did, but truth be told I’d never driven a truck.
I still have it. The truck. That I couldn’t sell. He loved it so much. He had so much fun in it. He took me on date night in his hot truck. I was happy he’d finally gotten something cool for himself. I was proud of him for buying it. Stupid things. Proud of him for a truck…
Then he died. It stayed. It loomed at me, another thing I had to take care of, make a decision about and manage. A thing that is just something you don’t take with you when you die. Cause you don’t take anything with you when you die. Evidence of that all over this house in all the things he did, then stopped doing and never did again.
The truck. What am I going to do with this truck?
I drove it. Not that night but later. I took it out on the dirt road and raced as far as I could. Drove as fast as I could. Kids were at home sleeping. I didn’t go far, I just needed to go fast. Kicking up dirt, jumping in that truck made to race. Climbing the rocks and getting it dirty.
Blasting the song, “I Drive Your Truck” by Lee Brice. Singing and crying the words to the song...
“People got their ways of coping Oh, and I've got mine I drive your truck I roll every window down and I burn up Every back road in this town I find a field, I tear it up Till all the pain's a cloud of dust”
Grant, I got that truck so dirty. You’d have laughed, then asked me when I’d be washing it. I had made a cloud of dust and I watched it in the rearview. It bellowed from the ground as I raced through that red dirt.
But the pain didn’t stay in that cloud of dirt like the song said. It hurt just as much when I parked it back home, went inside and checked on the sleeping kids.
Then I left it there in the garage again. Took the boys back home. And it sat for another few months before I could drive it home. Today I saw that truck. Still has dirty tires from when I drove it last. We’d been wrapping it with the logo from TKOR. The things Grant created are reflected in that truck, the bigness of all that, what was done when he was here, that gets me. The message in it, that it’s not the things you have, it’s in what you do with your time while you’re here, that’s what Grant left behind. All “the things” don’t mean much without your message. Grant’s message is clear all around me. Live Big, not small. Leave a message, those are the things that speak when you’re gone.
The truck - it’s flashy, fun. When I first saw the picture wrap on the truck, I immediately turned to look for you, Grant. Still now, after a year, my automatic reaction was to call your name and say, “look at this! Look what we’ve done while you were gone, isn’t this cool! OMgoodness… don't’ you love it!?!”
You would love it, I thought as I said it. Then I felt you smiling a yes back. A yes, without any attachment to the truck, just a happy smile that it pleased me. Hum… that’s a peaceful feeling. Thanks for sharing it.
I see the red dirt on those tires and remember that I can’t drive this pain out. It’s still here, and the truck will get used again, to continue to grow what Grant left.
I’ll drive the boys in that truck on those adventures you planned for them Grant, make those memories you’d been so excited to make with them in that truck. I’ll do it. I got you.