'A hurtin' kind of day'

I had just passed the "Home of the Big Peach" near Bruceville off U.S. 41 North and was anticipating the next landmark of Wabash Valley Correctional Facility. That's when it happened. That’s what I get for surfing FM stations in southern Indiana, constantly changing the dial from the Doobie Brothers to John Coltrane; from daily grain sales in Princeton to syndicated screeching preachers warning that Jesus is coming back soon and isn't going to be in a great mood.

But there it came. A big, salty drip from the corner of my left eye halfway through Mercyme’s “I Can Only Imagine.” Another one. Then another. Not wanting to be left out, my right eye decided to get a piece of the action.

Just a few hours before, my family and a multitude of others had said goodbye to my uncle, Patrick A. Henry. A bon voyage party to a man whose best journey began last Friday afternoon. It was an emotional gumbo seasoned with a deep dash here and there with respect, sadness and occasional silliness.
Streams of relatives, friends and folks he had worked with flowed in at the previous day’s showing and earlier this morning, including a swimming pool life guard who was married to a former in-law of mine. Though 40-something years have passed, I recognized him immediately, a nice guy who had kicked me and my brother out of the pool more than once because of our big mouths. It was good to see him and I assumed my best politeness mode. Good to say I never drowned during his tour of duty.

But I don’t think it was entirely the funeral that sprung the sentimental leak. I think it was the day itself. My late Aunt Elaine Oliver, who I use to call “Crazy O’Lane” had her own description of this sort of day. You see, the sun was blazing (but not too hot), the ivory kaleidoscope of cumulus clouds hung artfully in the sky and there was a sense of peace and joy. She would call it a “hurtin’ kind of day.”

So good, so perfect, so wonderfully balanced and something so simple each of us should stretch and yearn to embrace such a gift that it hurts. The kind of day only a kind, eternal Creator could build. I found myself giving thanks for nothing in particular but in reality for everything good this world shares with us.

And the night before, I saw something bright in the western black canopy as I locked up my car before calling it a day. Maybe a reflection of a plane, or an optical illusion. A shining world, perhaps a planet or a star. I don’t know. It draped a long time in the sky. But I dragged my Mama out to look at it and her interpretation seemed logical:

“Well, that’s Pat out there saying hello! We better get inside. Make sure you lock the door.”

MY GREY MERCURY whizzed north and turned east in Terre Haute on Interstate 70. I glanced at road signs and cheesy billboards, cranked up the radio and aimed toward Indy. I grinned as I hit the hurly-burly of rush hour and followed the trail to my home.

It felt good to have a hurtin’ kind of of day.