Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
@kknowlezeller

The dark clouds draw close, and the wind comes with them. I hold onto my straw hat with one hand and push hair out of my eyes with the other. My son, Isaac—impatient next to me—runs down the stairs of the platform we’re standing on, throws his hands into the air, and says, “Is the train coming yet? Why is it taking so long?”

The clouds move quickly—layered on top of each other like a mountain range. I, too, think, Is the train coming yet? Our umbrellas are in the car, and I calculate if I can retrieve them and be back for the train’s arrival. I pull out my phone and see it’s seven minutes late already. We’re not the only ones waiting for the World’s Largest Steam Locomotive, The Big Boy, to barrel through our town. 

Across the street, rows of bodies stand waiting for the train to pass. For months, newspapers and radio stations told people to mark their calendars. The 1.2 million pound steam engine would be a historic event traveling the country. Children sit atop their parents’ shoulders and umbrellas are clutched in hands. Isaac presses his face into my legs and says, “This is taking forever.” Just then, cell phones lift to the sky and feet balance on tiptoes. The entire crowd turns east, gazing down the tracks. 

I hear the train before I see it: a single release of the steam and rolling wheels across tracks. 

And without warning, I’m taken back in time, back to when I was the child waiting for a train with my dad.  

“Look, Kimmy!” he’d say as he drove and stopped the car to watch a train pass us. Sometimes he’d even turn the car to follow the tracks. Trains fascinated him—the mechanics, the conductor, and the beauty of traveling across the country. 

My parents divorced when I was young, leaving many vacations for just my dad and me. We took weekend trips to Chicago from Toledo on Amtrak, and traveled by train to Toronto. With every train ride, what I remember most is dad’s excitement, not only for the trains themselves, but for the time with me.  

Back on the platform, yellow jackets and striped engineer caps pop against the black of the engine. Hands of train workers and the engineer hang out the windows and wave to the lined streets. Steam rises to the sky with every blare of the horn. Then, when the train finally pulls into the station, the heavens open. 

Umbrellas pop to cover heads, and bodies run for cover. The earth absorbs the rain after weeks of drought. A child opens her mouth to catch a droplet. Air fills with the aroma of coal and oil mixed with water’s earthy scent. Isaac reaches his hands into the rain and laughs. I step closer to the building, and the roof’s awning keeps water from completely drenching my body. 

There’s a jolt and hiss of the brakes followed by a few minutes of only the sounds of rain falling. Water drips down my face, and I realize it’s not the rain, but my tears. I pick up Isaac to bury my face into his neck and utter words that only come out as a whisper, “My dad, your grandfather, would have loved this train.” My voice catches when I say, “He loved trains.” 

If I could, I would have told Isaac my dad loved trains and cars and all things that go. He loved to say he was “born to be wild” as he dressed in his leather coat one day and his classic mechanical engineer uniform of tie and dress coat the next. My dad died a few months before my wedding and now 10 years and two children later, I struggle to know how to tell my kids about my dad or how to keep his memory alive. To my kids, he’s a picture in photo albums, my son’s namesake, and the reason we know all about Chevy cars and trucks. But when I’m face-to-face with something my dad loved, like now, I’m reminded that his memory, his presence, is still with me.

As a middle and high schooler, I spent Sundays with my dad. We’d grab a meal of sandwiches and drinks, and drive the back roads of Toledo without a destination in mind.

“Which way should we go today, Kimmy?” I’d point one way or another and he’d turn the steering wheel in that direction. We’d follow train tracks and he’d cheer if one passed. Sometimes Dad heard about a hole in the wall restaurant that had the “best” chicken wings, pizza, or cheeseburger, and he’d take me to try it and see for ourselves. 

After every adventure, we’d come to the neighborhood I lived in with my mom and step-dad and the car would suddenly slow to a creep. Dad always followed the speed limit in neighborhoods. “You never know what kids will be out playing,” he’d remind me. A sigh released and I shook my head. Then he would add, “Where do you have to be anyway? Have patience, Kim. Enjoy the ride.” 

Now, as a mother, I’m the one who takes her time. I search for trains while driving, veer toward the off-the-beaten path, and indulge in ice cream and the “best” hamburgers. Like my dad, I take back roads and am filled with joy simply by my children’s presence.

The rain pours down and the steam train settles. People walk up and down the station platform admiring the massive train. I miss my dad. I wish he could be here with us. If he were here, he'd regale my son with all the facts about this specific train. He’d tell us about his time taking the train with his father, the trips he and I took, and his dreams of boarding a train now with Isaac.   

Sometimes my grief for my dad shows up in subtle moments: reading an inscription he wrote for me in a book, jazz music playing on the radio, or seeing my kids play with their toy trains. There are days that bring a flood of memories in remembrance, and days when I wish he could witness what I am now experiencing—the life I’ve built with my family.

Sometimes grief falls as a single teardrop. Sometimes it’s a moment of silence besides those you love. Other times, grief rolls in with the blare of a steam engine, and there’s nothing you can do but let the rain fall around you.

Guest essay written by Kimberly Knowle-Zeller. Kimberly is a writer, pastor, wife, and mother of two. She lives with her family in Cole Camp, Missouri. She also serves as the Community Manager for Exhale Creativity. When she’s not at the park with her children, walking around town, or tending to the garden, you can find her with a pen and paper. She believes in the power of words, unearthing the extraordinary in the ordinary, and encouraging others to follow their passions. You can connect with Kim on her blog, IG, and by subscribing to her monthly newsletter where you'll receive a free downloadable resource: Walk and Talk with God: Reflection, Scripture references, and a how-to for your own contemplative walk.