The West Fields route is unique. I have a couple of stops on the west side of the city, and then head out among the farmers’ fields on narrow country roads. The stops are miles apart. Unlike other routes where multiple buses crisscross paths, on out in the West Fields there is only one bus. I like the solitude.

Then there are the kids. I’ve driven the West Fields route for eight years. I’ve watched kids grow from kindergarten to eighth grade. I’ve watched other kids move through elementary school and graduate from high school. The kids on your bus become family. You don’t’ always get along. You don’t always like them. But you are stuck together and you end up caring about each other.

When I got word this summer that I would be changing routes my heart stopped beating for a moment. It was like getting “the call” informing you that someone close to you has died. The thought of being separated from my kids sent a pain through my chest. They were asking me to let go of the West Fields. What would the West Fields be without me? What would I be without the West Fields?

When fourteen year old son heard what route they were asking me to take, he sat straight up in his seat and yelled, “Don’t do it, Dad!” That’s the bus route he rode home on through middle school. He often would skip that bus and wait for my West Fields bus even though it would take him an hour longer to get home. The middle school bus—my new route—has a reputation.

Taking the Middle School route made too much sense. It starts in a small town thirteen miles away from the school. I live in that small town. The first stop is just a half block away from my home. I start at my home in the morning and end at my home at night. The other driver in town moved on and that left me. I made the change.

I’ve driven the route four days now. It’ll be weeks, maybe months, before I build any relationships. Right now it is awkward, like a blind date. I pull up to a stop and open the door. I see a line of young strangers staring up at me. They see a stranger behind the wheel of their bus. Conversation is stilted and difficult. I try to memorize a few names and get them wrong. I turn the wrong direction and have to go around the block. The kids think it’s funny while at the same time being a little impatient—the difficulties of putting up with a new bus driver.

I do miss my West Field kids. I had a line of them waving at me at school as I drove past. It was touching. Strangely enough, even though it’s only been four days, I’m starting to see individuals among those lines of strangers getting on my new route. There’s a sporadic smile, “good morning,” or “thanks for the ride” that catch me off guard. I sense the possibility of being able to love these kids like my West Fields kids. Is that all right? I’m not going to be able to help it.

Just the other morning little seven year old Faith got off the bus at school. Instead of running straight for the school like most kids, she stopped, turned, smiled at me, and waved. Everything is going to be okay.

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