That Old Country Road

I found myself driving down an old country road yesterday. Miranda Lambert's House That Built Me playing on the radio, the gentle rain playing in the background, Miss Wiggles trying to fall asleep behind me. As I drove car behind me, car in front of me as far as my eyes could see, head lights on in the afternoon. I looked to my right at the deep Southern Georgia waters amid the trees covered in kudzu, a random body of water there in the country along an old country road. To my left were churches, traditional churches, white with steeples, cars parked in the grass.

Our cars proceeded on.

Hubby was up the way leading, the other men by his side, they either looked forward, silent waiting or heads down, shoulders shaking. Watching a grown man's shoulder's shake seems like walking in on something sacred, private, something I felt like an intruder watching.

Never in all my life did I think I would be driving down an old country road in a funeral procession with my husband on a flat bed pulled by John Deere tractor.

Papa was an amazing wonderful man. I'm not the only one who feels that way as made evident by the many people sharing stories of all the ways Papa was a blessing to their lives. Children, now long time adults spoke of when Papa drove their bus back in grade school.

Hubby and I agreed that it makes you really take stalk of what kind of man you are.

I am one of the blessed few. My husband is one of the few men who grew up with such a man as a role model, his blood running through his veins. A real, real blessing.