Have you ever hitch hiked? I haven't. I mean can you imagine standing but the side of the road, thumb out, with your only chance of moving towards your destination being your own two legs or a vehicle that decides to stop because they've had this sudden urge of generosity, or are maybe slightly off their rocker?
My dad would probably fall into both categories and would openly admit that himself. He once bought a pink and white stripped tank top with a decal that read, "Chilly willy cool groove funky as it happens." I mean what is that? It was a “Blue Light Special” he found at Kmart one summer before leaving for our family beach vacation. I couldn't wait to be seen with him in that (insert strong sarcasm)!
But his generosity outshines any quirky t-shirt and his love for people would often take over the steering wheel guiding him to the side of the road to pick up a hitch hiker. He never stopped if our family was with him, and he always made it clear that my mom shouldn't participate in any hitch hiker relief efforts. This was dad's thing.
Typically we only got to hear the stories about the people he picked up, but one particular night, I think it was spaghetti night (every family has one right?) we got to meet the real live hitch hiker, Robin. My dad had picked him up only to find out that he had quite a long journey ahead. He was in Pennsylvania, but his end destination was much further north in Massachusetts, which I suppose qualified him for a rest stop at the Martin household for a spaghetti dinner. I remember him being fairly tall, with dirty blondish hair and a mustache. He was genuinely very kind and appreciative and took a seat among the sea of blonde heads with wide eyes. I'm the oldest of 4 siblings...all blondies as kids. Who knows what he was thinking as he sat at our kitchen table that night slurping up spaghetti and sipping on sweet tea. Maybe it had been his first time in a long time eating a home cooked meal, and most likely was a rare occasion to be sharing this time of day with a family. I don't remember a lot about his story, like why he was without a vehicle or what was waiting for him in Massachusetts, but as we wrapped up dinner my dad announced the he was going to drive Robin to the New York border. Those few extra miles would alleviate his need to find another generous soul and would aid him in getting that much closer to home. So after some brief goodbyes, around 7pm that evening Robin hopped in the car with my dad to head a few hours north.
My dad did not return that night. My dad did not call that night. My mom cried that night. We were snuggled in our beds. But what you must know quickly is that my dad DID call the next morning. He came home the next morning and my mom...well, she was still crying. So what happened? Once he got to the New York border he decided to go a few extra miles and ended up transporting Robin the whole way home. He should have called, but it was the 80s, cell phones were not popular...although a pay phone would've worked. Needless to say I think my mom wanted to rip his head off, but the minute he walked through the door all anger and worry morphed into sheer happiness and relief.
It was a classic case of his extreme generosity colliding with his "chilly willy cool groove funky as it happens" spirit. He must have been wearing that tank top under his flannel that day.
Nonetheless, it will forever be a lesson to me in going the extra mile, which happened to be quite literal on this occasion. But more importantly it was the passion in my dad's heart to not just "say" or have intentions of loving, but to LIVE it out, among everyone, even the guy with his thumb out. A book I love says, "If anyone forces me to go one mile, I will go with him two miles. I will choose the more excellent way even when no one is looking."
My dad went more than two miles that night. It was more like 300 miles, but it wasn't about he miles, it was about choosing the most excellent way. I don't have enough fingers to count how many times that story has flashed through my mind as I've found myself at the crossroad of doing a little or doing a lot. That crossroad of choosing between giving it my best or giving it my all. It has provoked me to take the path less traveled, like Robert Frost mentions in his famous poem. And indeed I've found that those paths are traveled by people like my dad, who love with their whole heart, creating an overflow of love that rushes through sweeping up other travelers who are attempting to find their way.
So I encourage you...go the extra mile in love and deed. It may be the mile that takes a friend, husband or wife, son or daughter...or even that compete stranger, "home."