Wooden Crosses

There were three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway leading out of our town. No one knew why there weren't more.

The bus driver, the truck driver, and the hooker should all be dead too. Instead, the Lord only took the farmer, the teacher, and the preacher.

It’s been sixty years since the eighteen wheeler slammed into the bus, leaving spouses widowed and kids reeling to understand what happened to their parents or their teacher. The crosses no longer stand in the field on the side of the highway like they used to, but they haunt us still.

Throughout the years, I’ve heard many different stories about the crash site.

The second I was old enough to drive, my mom told me, “You better keep your eyes peeled and follow all the rules of the road or you’ll end up like that poor teacher, smooshed to the road like a bug.”

But from an early age, I heard the stories of the highway being haunted by the souls of those who passed. They say at night you can hear their screams. That sometimes you can see them walking along the side highway, trying to find their loved ones.

There was one girl while I was in high school who claimed that the farmer jumped out in front of her car, begging her to stop and help them.

“His overalls were covered in blood and his arm was barely attached to his body. I thought he was a zombie,” she had said while we all gathered around during our lunch period, desperate to hear her story.

The tales never get old. At the ripe age of 21, I’m still hearing stories I’ve never heard before while I sit at the popular bar in town. I’m still not sure which, if any, are true, but they’re fun to listen to.

Tonight, I’m sitting in my usual spot at the bar with my favorite beer in my hand when an older man walks in and sits down next to me. A couple of my buddies are on the other side, telling me all about how there was almost another accident on the highway the other night.

“Rumor has it, the teacher walked out in front of the car, causing it to swerve and almost come head to head with a Peterbilt,” my buddy, Kyle, explains.

“I heard she was hot,” my other buddy, Michael, comments. “I’m sure her students loved her. Preserved in her prime, I guess.”

“I don’t want to hear you boys speaking about any of those victims like that,” the man next to me pipes up.

“And why is that?” I ask. I know I’m not being the most respectful right now, but this is just what our town gossips about. They have for sixty years. At least I didn’t call him ‘Old Man.’

He takes a deep breath and we all lean in. I’m not sure how he’s gotten this grasp on us, but he has. “All those people were good people who didn’t deserve to die, and yet the good Lord decided to take them.”

A cliche answer. I guess he’s just a grouchy old man. Probably late fifties. At 21, that’s old to me.

But then he continues, “The farmer left his wife and sons all by themselves to take care of eighty acres of farmland. Fortunately, he had left the love and care for the land, crops, and animals in the hearts of his sons. They made the farm flourish and it helps feed this entire town.”

I look at the sign above the bar that says, ‘All food made fresh with produce from Brown Family Farm.’

“As for the teacher, she was young. Had a whole life ahead of her and she was excited to get her master’s degree to be an even better teacher for her students. She was a sixth grade teacher and every student who went through her class came not only smarter but also just a better person. She cared deeply for each one. Showing up to their games and getting them extra help when they needed it. Many of the older leaders of this town went through her class.”

“Kyle needed a teacher like that. He was so disruptive.” I smack Kyle’s arm.

“Hey, man, you’re the one who almost failed two of your classes.”

I wave him off and let the old man continue.

“The preacher was always doing something for somebody. He loved the Lord and he loved the Lord’s people. In the last moments of his life, he closed the Bible he had been reading and held it out to the hooker who was trying to help whoever she could. He claimed he could see heaven and placed the Bible in the hooker’s hands.”

Michael snickers behind me, probably at some joke he’s made about the hooker.

“The Bible was bloodstained and she never really tried to get rid of the stain. It was a reminder to her of what happened that night.”

“How do you even know all of this?” I ask.

From the inside of his coat, he pulls out a blood stained leather Bible. “My mama read from this book every night before I went to bed. One day I asked her what the discoloration was and she shared her story. You see, she went on to marry the truck driver. They bonded over the shared trauma from that night. Slowly, they got to know the Bible better and began following the Lord. They had me and when I grew up, I wanted to repay that preacher for what he did. So I became a preacher. My church is just a town over, but every year on the anniversary of the accident, I come here and sit, wondering if maybe I’ll meet a lost soul that I can share this story with.”

Michael, Kyle, and I are left speechless.

After a few beats, I’m finally able to ask, “How many people have you shared this story with?”

“My congregation and anyone else who will listen. So probably a couple hundred.” He shrugs.

“Well, thank you for sharing it with us,” I say, genuinely. I’m not sure why or how, but it actually puts things into perspective for me. The crosses weren’t just warnings or signs for a ghost story. They represent souls whose stories continue to impact our community today.

“Thank you for listening.”

I wonder what would have happened if the hooker or the truck driver hadn’t lived. How much worse would the rumors be? Would anyone care what the true story was? Would people have still felt the impact?

“What happened to the bus driver?” I ask.

“He couldn’t take the guilt, so he left town. No one knows what happened after that, but there’s been gossip. I’m sure you can guess.”

I nod, and my heart breaks a little bit.

“Those three crosses hang in my church if you boys ever want to come by and see them,” the old man says.

“Thank you…” Karl trails off, not sure what the man’s name is.

“Travis,” the man tells us.

“Thank you, Travis,” Michael finishes.

“We’ll definitely stop by sometime,” I share. Some people might just say that to end the conversation or to not be rude, but I genuinely mean it. I want to see those crosses. I want to feel the weight of them.

*Inspired by the song Three Wooden Crosses by Randy Travis*