For Wilshire Baptist Church
I’ve told the story several times over the years in this space about how my family was traveling to my grandparents’ house for our annual Easter celebration when a pickup truck crossed the highway in front of us and caused a collision that ended my sister Martha’s life. That was 51 years ago, and while I really don’t dwell on it, the fact that it happened the week of Easter brings it to my mind most years. But, I may finally have found an end to the story, at least for me.
Last week I wrote about a road trip LeAnn and I made to attend two memorial services including one in Beaumont. It was the first time I had been near Beaumont since probably 1986 or ’87 when we went down to clean out my grandparents’ house in the town of Orange nearby. Knowing my family story about Easter and knowing that we would be driving through that vicinity, LeAnn asked if I might point out where the accident occurred. I agreed, but in my mind I planned just to nod as we passed through the intersection on US 287 where a green highway sign points to Honey Island.
It seems everywhere I go I see little makeshift memorials on the roadside: crosses, flowers, stuffed animals, signs with names. I understand why people do that and I certainly sympathize with their loss, but that’s not something I’ve ever wanted to do. Martha left us Easter week, and the heart of the Easter story is the resurrection and the empty tomb. So while we’ve missed her all these years — missed all that she never got to do and never got to be — there’s been no need to linger at the turnoff to Honey Island.
That was my mindset as we neared the site, but instead of zipping by, I found myself slowing down, and then pulling over and parking, and then getting out of the car.
The day was much like that day many years ago: partly cloudy, mild temperature, light breeze, not much traffic. I walked out onto the wide median and was impressed by how beautiful the location was. The grass was fresh and green and sprinkled with red Indian paintbrushes, white lazy daisies and yellow dandelions. There was a grove of bushes and hardwood trees with bright new leaves to the south that hid the source of traffic that sped by sporadically, and tall pine trees on both sides of the highway framed the entire scene.
It was almost like being at a park, except that it wasn’t, because it was there that I learned so early that life would be no walk in the park. It’s been “a good life, but not an easy life,” as our pastor tells young parents when they dedicate their children. Indeed, there have been other heartbreaks and disappointments, but there have been abundant blessings as well. Holding it all together has been the faith that the truth of Easter will bring us all back together on “some glad morning” as the old hymn says.
Until then, we have lives to live and work to do, and for me that includes telling other stories. Perhaps someday if I drive down that highway again, I’ll make the turn and visit Honey Island for the first time. From what I’ve read, it gets its name from the Civil War era when jayhawkers hiding from the Confederate Army would collect honey in pots and trade it with the locals for food and provisions. Sounds to me like an interesting story to pursue.