
Today, I took one last ride with my dad.
At least, it felt like it.
I drove his old truck, the one I’ve had since he passed a few years ago. It’s still full of little reminders of him. And today, it carried something that felt especially close.
Recently, my mom made a difficult decision. She decided it was time to let go of some of Dad’s clothes. She didn’t want to just drop them off at Goodwill or Salvation Army, not that there’s anything wrong with those places. But she wanted it to matter. She wanted it to go somewhere personal. Purposeful.
I told her about His Way, a Christ-centered recovery ministry right here in Huntsville. Men overcoming addiction find not only sobriety but also community, counseling, and Scripture-driven transformation. His Way runs several thrift stores in the area, called The Saving Way. They employ the very men going through the program. Redemption finds hands and feet there.
Dad would have loved that.
So this morning, I loaded his clothes into the back of the truck. Shirts he preached in. Jackets he prayed in. The kind of clothes that hold stories. And I drove them across town, talking to Dad the whole way, just like we used to.
Growing up, we must’ve ridden tens of thousands of miles together in that truck, headed to ball games, church events, late-night drives home after tournaments. We’d talk about everything and nothing. Just a dad and his son, filling the cab with life.
And today… one more conversation.
One more ride.
I found myself telling him about His Way, about how his clothes would clothe someone trying to get their life back. Someone he’d pray for if he were here. Someone he’d cheer on.
Whoever picks up one of Dad’s shirts at the Saving Way Thrift Shop won’t know his name. They’ll never hear his laugh, or see how deeply he loved Jesus. But maybe, just maybe, they’ll feel a little warmth in the fabric. Maybe they’ll sense something sacred in the ordinary. Because love lingers. And grace has a way of sneaking into thrift store aisles.
Today wasn’t just about dropping off some bags.
It was one last ride with my dad.
And somehow… I think he smiled the whole way there.

