I followed a pickup truck out of town one day last week – not a shiny, showy truck, but a real work truck, with side-mounted toolboxes and a bed full of tools, ladders, ropes and other hints of the hard work in store for its driver.
Our vehicles summed up just how different his work day would be from mine. I was headed out of town in my compact hatchback, wearing a suit and tie, briefcase at my side containing more technology than was once needed to send rockets into orbit . . . and then document the trip in high-definition video.
Then I noticed the emblem on his bumper: a single upper-case letter, with a name identifying the public middle school in my neighborhood. It was the school my own kids had attended thirty-some years ago, and now attended by many in my neighborhood. Suddenly I felt not nearly so separated from this truck driver, as connected to him, as we both headed off to do the jobs that would provide for families we loved.
Our vehicles were as different as our jobs, but we held in common the impulses that drove us. I breathed a prayer of blessing on him and his day, for grace and peace, and a safe return home.