Car conversations. I'd been thinking about this topic for about a day when my friend Tammy Mortenson Sharp called just to touch base. Everytime we talk (and we really should find the time to do it more), we share memories, thoughts and feelings on a wide variety of topics. The conversations alway include updates on our children, bathed in an awareness that we have both become acquainted with rare brands of grief: hers for a child lost too early to cancer; mine for dreams that fall outside the reality of what my life is now.
Last night Tammy shared a conversation that she and her husband had with their daughter Kelly one day while riding in the car. They were coming home from the doctor's appointment where they had learned that Kelly's cancer had returned. Tammy said Kelly intuitively knew she'd not survive her cancer, and the conversation quickly turned to all the things she'd never get to experience: a real boyfriend, marriage, children, sex.
I shared what I'd been thinking about car conversations with Tammy, knowing that she'd connect with the layers of emotion present in those sacred car rides - the kind that carry you from oblivious to knowing.
You travel to medical tests and then return to face the new reality the tests revealed. Or, you ride in silence, wrestling with loud, private thoughts that won't let you revisit old ways. Or, you sit passively, welcoming God's active involvement in life - if only.
I offer this to you - to all who've known the complexity of car conversation with divine implications. Here I briefly reflect on a few car conversation memories of my own with a promise to share those still too raw to describe.
Warning: Sorry about the audio on this one. I wasn't aware of how much the car windshield would magnify the sound. Be ready to adjust your volume.
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