493 Miles

A journey through grief, grace, and the unexpected kindness of a stranger.

The stretch of I-55 between Rankin County, Mississippi, and St. Louis, Missouri spans 493 miles of pavement, memory, and heat. I’ve driven that road more times than I can count; it’s woven into the rhythm of my life.

I’ve made the trip with my grandparents, singing old country songs as cotton fields blurred by outside the window. I’ve made it with my parents, trading quiet stories and gas station snacks. I’ve made it with my brother, his wife, and kids, their laughter rising from the back seat like music, and with my husband beside me, our love tucked into the soft spaces between conversations. I’ve even made it with friends, our voices filling the car with dreams, frustrations, and the unspoken knowing that only the road can hold. This highway has seen me grow, ache, hope, and heal.

This road knows me, and I know it.

But this last drive felt different; it was heavy. I was heading home to Mississippi to bury someone, and that kind of grief sits on your chest like Southern heat: slow, thick, and unrelenting.

It was Memorial Day weekend, and the sun was cruel. Just a few days earlier, someone had broken into our cars back in St. Louis. We had just repaired the damage. Now I found myself standing in the funeral home parking lot, and my car almost didn’t start on the way to the burial. It was three o’clock on a Saturday, ninety degrees and rising. My body was tired, my spirit strained, and I could feel the tears coming up fast. I called my husband, crying, and texted a few friends to let them know what was happening.

I was doing my best to hold it together, but stress had its hands around my throat.

My husband, calm as ever, talked me down and told me what to do. I wiped my face, took a few deep breaths, and drove myself to an AutoZone, still in my black funeral dress, doing everything I could not to fall apart. I walked in with grief clinging to me like humidity.

The first person helped, got a second opinion, and initially told me they likely couldn’t fix it, but he checked anyway. Then came the second man, Preston Harper. He looked at me, listened to what I said, and must have seen the weight I was carrying in my posture, in my face, in the way I asked for help. He said, “I can help, give me a few minutes.”

And right then, as if on cue, the sky opened up. The rain came fast and hard, the thick, sticky kind of storm that only Mississippi summers know. It poured and steamed, soaking everything in sight. But still, he helped me. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t walk away. He stood with me in that rain and did what needed to be done.

As he worked, we talked. He told me his wife had just earned her master’s degree the day before, and when he said it, his whole face lit up with pride. He told me that the land we were standing on used to be all woods, trees, and wildness. And there we were, in a parking lot in the middle of the storm, talking like neighbors, like strangers who know something about the same kind of struggle, like people still trying to believe in goodness.

Somewhere between the rain, the rust, and the moment of pause, something shifted in me. That man didn’t know what I was holding. He didn’t know how much I needed even the smallest act of kindness. I didn’t know how close I was to the breaking point. But his presence, his patience, and his quiet generosity met me in that fragile place.

To him, it was probably just another Saturday. To me, it was sacred.

Here’s what I want you to hear: the universe doesn’t always shout. It doesn’t always part the sky or send big signs. Sometimes, it just sends a stranger in an AutoZone shirt, someone who sees you and doesn’t look away, someone who helps because they can. Sometimes, that’s enough to remind you that you are not alone. Even in the middle of the most brutal storm, someone might stand beside you, not with an umbrella, but with a heart.

So, if you’re in the middle of your own storm right now, if you’re 493 miles from comfort, if your grief is heavy, if the heat is relentless, hold on. Grace shows up. Compassion shows up. People, in all their messy, beautiful humanity, show up. That was the sign I needed. Maybe it’s the one you needed too.