Jordan's mother, Lynn, is a saint. I'll tell you a little bit about why I think so.
I have already talked about how our dog, Cooper was killed over Thanksgiving. Jordan, the kids, and I were not there when it happened. I was pretty upset about that initially. I felt like we had always been there to take care of him, since he was a pup, and somehow, in his most dire moment of need, we were not able to be there for him. I hope that those of you who are
not dog lovers can try to understand that those of us who
are really love these animals like they are people. Cooper was as much a member of our family as either of my children. Lynn Hutton is a dog lover. When none of the rest of us could be there, Lynn was. She was the one who found Cooper on the road and had the horrible task of bringing his lifeless body back up to the house. As I already said, I regret that I couldn't be there to help, but in our
absence, I feel certain that Lynn was the best person for the job.
Something cool about Lynn is that she also writes a regular column—Cross Currents— for one of her local town newspapers. It's a religion column, which makes sense, since she is a minister with the United Methodist church. Occasionally she will weave little bits of the goings-on of her family into her column. I felt sure that this event would make its way to print somehow. As she is a much better writer than I am, I will let her speak for herself. From the latest edition of the
Halls Shopper News...
Angel in a Pickup Truck
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it. (Hebrews 13: 2 NRSV)
There really are angels. I met one the other night. The truth is, I didn’t recognize him as such. It was only much later, when Jordan asked, “Did you get his name?” and I admitted that I had not, that her stepson Jack said, “Maybe he was an angel.”
Jack is eight years old, all boy, and not given to flights of fancy. (Well, he is a Star Wars fan of the first order, but he understands the difference between movies and everyday reality.)
Startled, I turned and looked at him, considering that possibility. “It is true that he was driving a white pickup truck,” I admitted, which in my part of the world might be considered an appropriate angelmobile.
The reason this angel appeared in our lives is a sad one. Once again, in eerily similar circumstances to the last time, we lost another dog at our house. Cooper, Jordan’s border collie-Australian blue heeler mix, left the back yard and went across the road. He didn’t make it back.
I was dog-sitting when Cooper and Emma asked out, and following the usual protocols, I put Emma on a chain attached to the run. Cooper, being the more trustworthy of the two, was released on his own recognizance. Emma asked back in quickly, but no Cooper. I started calling and whistling, going from door to door, growing more and more uneasy, and finally started out the front door to see if he had gone next door. That is when I saw the white pickup truck stopped across the road with its lights shining onto something in the road. There were other cars stopped, trying to pass safely, I suppose. I was off at a dead run, hoping against hope.
When I got there, a man came toward me from the pickup. “Is he yours?” he asked softly.
“My daughter’s,” I managed. Then, “No, it’s not!” In the darkness, the fur didn’t look right; the texture was all wrong. (It would be much later before I figured out why.) I knelt and checked the tag. It was Cooper, after all. I half-lifted, half-dragged him out of the road, and ran for the house again, to get something to carry him home in.
When I went back, the man was still waiting. “Can I help?” he asked, and the two of us carried our sad burden and placed it gently in the garage. He turned to leave, and it was the first time I had really seen his face. Brown hair, brown eyes, maybe a beard. I was in shock, and already dreading having to tell Jordan. But his heart was in those brown eyes, and I saw compassion and understanding there. I wanted to ask his name, but introductions seemed bizarrely out of place. I wanted to shake his hand, but I realized my own hands were covered with blood, and so refrained. I thanked him again, and he was gone.
Conveying the news to Jordan was even more painful than I had imagined. It was not until the next morning when she started asking questions about who had helped me. She went to the subdivision across the street and set about tracking down the white pickup. It took two false leads to finally find the angel.
His name is David Owen. He and his wife Angie have a dog, a Boxer. A friend driving down our road saw Cooper, and called David to make sure his pet was safe. David decided to come down to the scene and do whatever he could to help.
He was not a passerby. He left the comfort of his home, got in his truck and drove to the scene, not because he had any stake in it at all. He just knew that an animal was hurt, possibly dead, and that somewhere a pet owner cared about that animal. He parked out of the road and shone his headlights onto the scene to warn approaching drivers. And he waited.
It was a kindness that in some small way began the healing process in Jordan’s broken heart. Someone who didn’t know and love Cooper had gone out of his way to be caring. A stranger (read, angel) understood how devastating such a loss can be.
Jordan said later, “He did the right thing. He did what was not expected, not required, not easy, but right.”
There are angels among us. One of them is named David.
Thank you, Lynn. Thanks for
raising a wonderful daughter, for being a great mom, and being one of the many angels among us.
If you would like to read Lynn's column in its original form, you can do that
here.
