Writings By Phil

Not everyone lays claim to an intersection in rural America. I do. This one is mine! I do not know the names of the two roads that cross here, but they are forever etched into my memory. It was here, 47 years ago, that procrastination almost killed me!

My family moved to the little town of Ingalls, Kansas in 1970 where my father became the pastor of the Federated Church. I went off to Prairie Bible Institute in Canada the same year they moved, so I spent the next few summers living with them and working at whatever I could find to make money to pay for the next school year.

My second summer home, I was hired by Ingalls Feed Yard, to feed cows at a secondary lot about two miles from the main feed lot. My work day started at the big yard on Hwy 50/400. There, I picked up my truck and drove through the feed mill, stopping at different stations to load 2000 pounds of alfalfa, 2000 lbs of silage, 2000 lbs of cracked corn, and lastly, 1000 lbs of animal fat (illegal now), molasses and minerals.

Full at 7000 lbs, I drove slowly to the south gate while the augers mixed the different ingredients together in the back of the truck. Leaving the south entrance, I crossed the highway and drove two miles down a dirt road to a smaller feed yard where I would dump my load into cement troughs for the cows to eat. I repeated this journey 8 – 12 times a day.

There was no AC in the truck and summers were hot. County Western music was all one could find on the radio. Feeding cows was not the most exciting job in the world. Sometimes, when I knew the cowboys were far away and couldn’t hear me, I would sing to the cows. One of their favorite songs seemed to be, “I got a mule, her name is Sal. Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.” Every cow stopped chewing and stared up at me with big, soft, brown eyes. It was easy to know how many bovines were in each pen, because when I sang I could see and count every one of those shinny eyes. Then I just divided by two.

By mid summer, I discovered that I processed an unwanted superpower. I could make it rain! If I washed my truck, which we drivers were encouraged to do, without fail, it rained the next day. The county made it rain, too. They graded the road and filled the ruts my truck had made after the last rain, and the next day, it rained. The county and I tried, but the rain and the mud always won. A clean truck and a smooth road were elusive, something I could only dream about.

When the rain stopped, the sun beat upon the newly piled mud, drying it hard as rock walls along the ruts in the road. I did my best to steer the truck over the smoothest path when the road was dry. Though I tried, my truck, kicking up dust as I drove, jostled me back and forth for the six to eight hours needed to finish the feeding.

To make my drive even worst, my brakes started leaking fluid. I poured brake fluid into it each day as needed and was able to finished the feedings for the next few days. I had reported it to the high ups, but nothing was done and I was not offered another truck. The leak seemed to be getting worse, but I wasn’t too worried. I reasoned that I would be okay because the roads wouldn’t let me drive too fast and other than crossing the highway, my route was over a rural road with little or no traffic.

Later, on that fateful afternoon, I was driving another load of feed to the waiting cows. Preoccupied with finding the best path to lessen the rattle of the truck, I was not paying attention to my surroundings. I happened to look up as I neared the intersection. Something was coming down the cross road, but it was blocked from my vision by the big sideview mirror on my truck. I only saw a large dust plume trailing out from behind the mirror. I stomped on the brake peddle. It went all the way to the floor, but did nothing to slow my forward momentum. I was in serious trouble!

As I rolled into intersection, a huge dump truck, the kind with giant tires and a dump box set high above the wheels, exploded from behind my mirror. It loomed large and deadly, so close, it filled my whole wind shield. Its gravity was sucking me to destruction. I cried out, “Help me, Jesus!” I pulled the steering wheel half a turn, maybe – it happened in micro seconds, but everything was playing in slow motion. The nose of my truck, still turning to the right, was between the tires of the behemoth dump truck. Impact was certain and I waited for the crash and the tearing of metal, fearing the rear tires would climb on top of my smaller truck, smashing, twisting, ripping the cab, with me inside of it, to smithereens. It didn’t happen!

Instead, I witnessed the perfect choreographed dance of two trucks, my truck matching, with precision, the speed and movement of the big truck. Like dancers in a slow waltz, my truck was held in a gentle embrace, but without touching, and then spun off to the side as the big truck sped off down the road. My truck came to a stop in the tall weeds by the side of the road.

I sat there feeling dazed for a moment, my heart racing. What had happened? Why was I alive? How had my truck and I come through such a close encounter unscathed? These trucks were not known to turn on a dime. Had unseen hands grabbed the wheel and turned it sharper than I ever could? I wondered!

I noticed that the dump truck had stopped down the road, the driver waiting to see if I was okay. He had, at least, witnessed some of my big blunder, and was probably asking the same questions that I was. I not only almost killed myself, I nearly ruined his day, as well.

Embarrassed, I yanked the truck into reverse and backed around the corner, then hightailed it for the feed yard. After dumping my load of feed, I drove back to the big yard, turned my truck into the garage and told them I wouldn’t drive it anymore until they fixed the brakes. That was something I should have insisted on days before!

In the days following, and even today, 47 years later, I still ponder what happened on that day. I cried out and God heard my cry. His timing was perfect! One second, sooner or later, the outcome would have been drastically different. It was the day that God made two trucks dance together and not touch!

An even bigger question was why did God spare me? And, was I worth saving? When on my best behavior, I’m just a sinner, saved by grace. I’ve bungled my way through 43 years of being a missionary, 36 years of marriage, 35 years being a father, and 11 years as a grandfather. I’ve failed in all of them so many times. God has been working in me for 67 years, and there is still so much to be done. I probably would have given up on the likes of me years ago. I know God has a different perspective than I do and must have some purpose for me yet and that is why he spared me on that long ago day and every day since. How often I forget to thank Him for His grace and mercy, His forgiveness and the breath in my lungs each morning.

Maybe I need more days like that one long ago, hot and dusty, on a dirt road in Southwest Kansas when I knew that it was God who gave me another day to live.

Maybe, but I don’t think my heart could take too many days like that one!

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