It was pitch black as I made my way to the airport at 5:00 one frigid morning. Just 15 degrees outside, I couldn’t keep the ice off the windshield. Inside the car, though, it was toasty warm. The heater was turned up to the max, and those seat warmers were working their magic.
Taking one last gulp from my coffee, I turned on to a toll-road that promised me a quick route to the airport. My mind was going in a hundred different directions as I navigated the icy roads: am I going to get there in time, did I remember to make the hotel reservation, what airline am I flying, missing Kathi and the kids already, wishing I was still snuggled up in my warm bed, and wondering what in the world I was doing on the interstate in the middle of an ice-storm at 5:00 in the morning.
I don’t like to travel, and mornings like that just reinforced those feelings. As I made my way toward the first tollbooth, though, I wasn’t prepared for what lay just 500 feet in front of me.
I slowly pulled up to the tollbooth and rolled down my window to pay the $1.50 toll. As I reached out my hand to the attendant, my eyes turned to his hands – hands that were well-worn with calluses from years of hard, manual labor; dark from constant exposure to the sun. They were cold and numb from the ice storm now bearing down on them. Each wrinkle could tell the horror stories of war, watching his best friend get blown up, giving away his daughter in marriage, burying his wife, and pushing his grandson in a swing. They were frail, trembling hands that just wanted to rest.
My eyes then locked on his. Grey, wiry eyebrows protected his dark, sullen eyes from the ice blowing in. There were streaks of red surrounding the whites of his eyes – had he been crying, was he sick, had he been up all night with a sick loved one, had he just left the local bar to work the grave yard shift? Deep behind those eyes were the pangs of a hurt soul, full of angry conversations with a God that he still struggled to love. Like the calluses on his hands, there was a hardness in his eyes, with a story longing to be told.
What was a 70+ year-old man doing working the tollbooth so early on a freezing morning? Didn’t he have grandkids to tell stories to or coffee to drink with his buddies at the local doughnut shop? Or, was he facing the twilight of his life alone, with a nary of a person to talk with? Was life in the tollbooth better than the hollow apartment he now called home? Were the tollbooth customers, people on a frantic pace to that ever-critical business meeting, now his reason for waking up every morning?
There is no telling what the true story is behind those hands and eyes; but, as the attendant handed me my change, I looked at him and said “Thank you”. Not in the quick, non-meaningful tone that we normally tell someone “Thank you”, but in a voice that comes from deep within that said “I appreciate you. I hope you are able to find rest and warmth soon. ”
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