The red Rambler sedan hugged the mountain as Daddy navigated the serpentine roads of eastern Kentucky. When the road curved back on itself, I vomited into the paper bag, then nestled into the quilt on the backseat. Mommy had folded it in half and tucked the soft, fluffy fabric into the seat corners to make a bed for me. I was barely six, and seatbelts weren’t yet mandatory.
The fudgsicle I’d begged for at the last rest stop had been a mistake. Mommy poured a cup of water from the Thermos and handed it back, insistent I sip from the red plastic cup. The wet liquid felt good on my burning throat, and I pressed my spine against the backseat upholstery.
Dusk was falling, casting purple shadows across the Blue Ridge mountains, and my stomach had finally settled. I was almost asleep when the boy threw the big rock at the Rambler. It shot through the back window, shattering untempered glass fragments into a circular heap behind the driver’s seat. Mom yelled as Dad braked hard, tossing me onto the floorboard, terrified but unharmed.
Daddy shoved the car into park, opened the door and walked fast toward the boy in long, even strides. My daddy wasn’t a yeller, but he seemed pretty upset. The boy stood still as a statue at the edge of a cornfield, tufts of flaming red hair blowing in the evening breeze.
He couldn’t have been more than nine.
A gray-bearded man wearing overalls had exited the house and was fast approaching Daddy. They stood talking, pointing to us at the car, and the old man wrote something on paper and handed it to Daddy. They all shook hands. Even from a distance, it was easy to see the boy was crying.
“What happened down there?” Mommy asked when he slid into the driver seat.
Daddy was quiet for a minute, like he wasn’t sure he could answer. “The boy’s name is Robby. He said he’d been throwing rocks at cars because he was mad.”
“Mad at who, Daddy?” I asked. I was sitting in the front on Mommy’s lap. She brushed my hair away from my face and kissed my cheek.
“At the world. Robby’s little brother drowned last week. His Grandpa said he’d been having a real hard time with it. Robby apologized and his Grandpa offered to pay for the window. And he said Robby would be working off the cost of the window in chores.”
The three of us watched as Robby and his grandpa walked back to the house. Grandpa hugged Robby to his side as they walked. It was almost dark now, and the crickets were chirping up a storm.
~~~
It’s a scene I’ll always remember—a snapshot of compassion, exemplified by the two most important people in my six-year-old life, my parents. And later, when older and forced to wear the mandatory seatbelt, I learned a little more about Dad’s anger that day, and Mom’s tight grip on me in the front seat. It took them six years of trying—and praying—to get me here, in a day when little was known about infertility. My life—all life—held so much value for them.
So instead of pointing out what could have happened if the huge rock had shattered his little girl’s skull instead of a rear window, and demanding pay for that broken window, Dad showed mercy—for Robby, his grandpa, for a whole family grieving the loss of a young man dear to them. Dad had insight into what seems to be losing ground in today’s society—that every single human life has worth. After all, he knew what it took to get one here.
You are worthy.
You matter.
We all do.
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