A Ride In His Truck

I took a ride through the country today, behind the wheel of my father’s old truck. As the road stretched out in front of me, I spoke to him the way a Catholic might speak to Mary. I wouldn’t call it praying, exactly—but I trust he’s close enough to the Lord that our conversation was overheard.

I miss being able to talk to him, to seek his counsel. These days, life moves at a dizzying pace. The years feel like they’re stuck on fast-forward. One moment it’s tomorrow, the next it’s already yesterday.

I often find myself buried under to-do lists, obligations, and fires that demand immediate attention. Everything is urgent. Nothing can wait.

These aren’t unique struggles—they’re just part of life. We’re all rowing the same boat, more or less, down the same river toward the same end.

But my father had this gift—he could still the waters. He calmed my anxious mind, quieted my spiraling thoughts. I wonder now, was that peace only surface-deep? Did he, like me, carry his own storms inside?

He was a preacher. People needed him. They leaned on him. Their well-being was tied to his words, his prayers, his presence. He carried their secrets, offered them peace, and handed out forgiveness like a balm for their wounds.

Lately, when I think of him, I think of the burden he must have carried. A weight only a few could ever truly understand.

I know I can’t.

And yet, when I drive his truck, I feel something close to peace. That’s rare for me. In that cab, I’m quiet—and more importantly, I’m allowed to be. I don’t have to perform or produce. I just am. Those moments are precious.

I’ll never be the man my father was. I’ve made peace with that.

But I do carry a deep well of love for the people in my life. I just fail, more often than not, to show it. I fail in a hundred little ways every day.

We all do. I know I’m not alone in that.

I write this not for anyone else—but for me. To hold a mirror to myself. To stare my flaws and my victories in the face.

I tend to ignore the victories. But the failures—I cradle them. I let them keep me awake at night.