A place of comfort. We will find it if we take the time to trust our instincts and allow ourselves to rest in the places we often find ourselves. If we trust those places.
His doors are heavy from wear. His metal armor says “Made in America and proud of it.” He is nearly as old as me. This “he” I speak of was given to me by my Mommy and Daddy. His name is Chevrolet Silverado. And I call him my honey. His tires that are nearly warn out speak of where he is from. The country. A long driveway. Home. They tell of the service that he provides and the help that he offers. Mud from the pasture decorates the sides and at times and in certain places, blends in with the gold that is his coloring. You might find me silly. Writing about a truck. Giving it a name of endearment.
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted a truck. My Daddy drove one. Always. My sisters, whom I admire, wanted one. I learned how to drive in a 15-passenger, black, Ford, E350. Big has always been standard around here. Big has always been safe. And that is what my honey is.
On the rides home from school, with the heater blowing on my boots, I felt safe in my pick-up. As I sit on the worn, leather seat and look in the rearview mirror and see the truck bed, I smile. After a bad day, he doesn’t ask questions. The radio blares. He doesn’t betray my trust. Tells no one of my tears. Or of my immature giggles. He just keeps going.
Solace- a place of comfort during trouble.
God gave me this truck, this bucket of bolts that I call my honey. And with it, solace. He knew I would need it. Before I ever would have. Thankfulness. My oozes with it.