Cup of coffee in hand, I read this story on the front page of the morning newspaper (click on): Truckers lined up rigs to save suicidal man.

Seeing a man clinging to an overpass high above Interstate 94, Carl Hoffman, a quick-thinking state trooper, “found an ingenious way to save him. He summoned a convoy of 18-wheelers…positioning them one by one to break a potential plunge to the pavement about 25 feet below.”

Carl Hoffman deserves a medal. So do the truck drivers. But the truckers got back on the road before anyone took their names. “The drama over, ‘we told the truckers to take off,’ trooper Hoffman said, leaving the identities of the Good Samaritans a mystery to authorities.” One of the truckers told the trooper that he had done this once before in Florida.

Trucker are a different breed of cat.

Take Wes, for example. Wes logged over a million miles as an over-the-road long-distance hauler. He and his wife, Alice, are members of Shepherd of the Hill Presbterian Church, the wonderful small church I like to call a collection of characters with character.

Wes and Alice are retired in their 80s. Wes was recently diagnosed with cancer that leaves him in great pain and some confusion.

I walk into his hospital room. His eyes are closed. I speak his name. He opens his eyes. His face breaks into a smile. His eyes grow wide. He reaches out his hand. “Oh, my! Look at you. You came all this way just to see me? Oh, my!  Great to see you. You didn’t have to that. You didn’t have to come all that way…just to see me.”

“No problem,” said, “it only took me four hours.” We both laugh. It takes 25 minutes, and he knows it, although the cancer has taken its toll on his memory and cognitive skills. ‘Yeah, but you didn’t have to come.” He squeezes my hand and holds on.

Reading the paper this morning, I imagine Wes as one of those truckers lined up in the truck convoy under the bridge.

Like each of the those truckers, Wes has his own story. And he has lots of stories to tell.

Wes and Alice are the only people I know who have had a coyote for a pet. While Wes was was on the road with his rig, Alice was taking care of the farm with the coyote at her side for companionship and protection.

During one of those weeks, one of the calves was in trouble back on the farm. Alice called the veterinarian. When the vet arrived and reached to open the gate to the pasture, Alice stopped him.  “Don’t go in there. That bull’s mean. Stay right here. Watch this.” Alice opened the gate enough for the coyote to enter the pasture. The coyote ran directly to the bull, stared him down, grabbed hold of the chain from the bull’s nose, yanked the chain tight, and led the submissive bull into the barn. No bull!

So…who saved the calf’s life? Alice? The veterinarian? Or the coyote that got the bull into the barn?  Who rescued the despondent man on the I-94 overpass? The State Trooper? The firemen who cut through the fence and pulled the man to safety? The six truckers in the 18-wheeler convoy?

One of the long-distance haulers is coming down the home stretch asking why his pastor would “come all that way just to see me.” He and his fellow Good Samaritans know the answer better than the pastor.