This took me a while to write. I can make up excuse after excuse as to why, but there were many factors involved. One important one being that many people who are dear to me were involved in this story, and I felt it wrong to share their story. But I've learned, through gentle prompting of friends and wise counsel, that this is just as much my story as it is theirs. Please, please hear me: these are simply my thoughts and what I've learned from this shared story. It's not fair to assume any of how they thought or felt because even though we all experienced the same traumatic event, we all experienced it very differently. That being said, I'd like to share how my life has changed since our car reached mile marker 93.2 on the morning of September 18, 2016.My natural instinct, I've learned now more than ever, is to protect; protect others and then protect myself. I have always tried my best to keep people from worrying about me, in any capacity. Ask any of my friends (or parents)--they know this all too well. I believe this can be good, at times. I have learned to trust my gut as it rarely steers me wrong. However, as we all know, sometimes too much of a good thing can be a bad thing (anyone who remembers that sour stomach can attest to this--that time you gorged on 3...or 9 scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream, anyone? Just me? Cool.)So on September 18th, I did what I always do: I went into protection mode. But what I realized that morning that was so profound was that it wasn't a decision. It was what my body decided for me.The car finally came to a halt and smoke was wafting from the hood of the car. I don't remember the in-between. Someone asked if I experienced it in slow motion. No, but I wish I had. I remember feeling the shift in my seat; peering up from my book and seeing our car almost weightlessly drift across lanes, careening to the right. I remember being thankful my brain could process quickly what was happening as my eyes settled on the trees awaiting us. I remember thinking, "If my friend who was driving could do anything to correct the tires and the speed, he would." And the fact that he couldn't, meant that something was terribly wrong. The fact that we didn't slow, didn't straighten, meant we were headed for trees at a high speed. And then I remember this: a surreal peace that enrobed me. That defeated any common sense or any logical processing. That, I believe, is only possible because of a man who hung on a cross, stripped of dignity and freedom and mercy, to buy my dignity and secure my freedom with His mercy. We can talk more about that later, but I believe that, in that moment, faith defeaned logic for me. (Which is rare for me if I'm being honest.) But when I couldn't decide, it was decided for me. When I couldn't reason or rationalize or protect myself, I was ransomed for and protected.Between screams, cries and the pattering of the rain, it was hard to know where to let my mind rest first. My neck was stiff, as if I'd slept on it wrong and then someone had come and abruptly waken me from my slumber, and proceeded to shake me like a rag doll a few times. A hint of fear crept in, lurking at the door as I thought "I've never felt pain and stiffness like this before." But before the thought could mature into an unrecognizable, unreasonable monster, I stopped. I let my mind settle on the realities of the moment: I could wriggle my toes and was able to unbuckle myself with my left hand. My right was rendered useless. My neck was scorched by the very thing that saved my life, and I had a crimson rash to prove it. One thing I didn't have: a single scratch, not a drop of blood to be found. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for my best friend's boyfriend. One thing about me: I'm a highly visual person. As a survivor of PTSD, my worst nightmares and flashbacks are vivid memories that feel fresh as the day they occurred, so I consider it divine protection and an immensely huge blessing that I was forced to only see what was in front of me: shattered glass, tree debris and oncoming traffic. But my other senses were heightened, and I heard my best friend as she cried for help. I could hear the fear and worry closer than the skin on my bones. My other friend, who'd been the driver before the rain had caused us to veer across 4 lanes and pirouette into a slow dance with trees and a grand finale with a stone wall. He was nervous, scared, worried- I could almost feel the fear pulsating through his veins, throbbing with each grateful pump of blood. Thankfully, he responded in action. He wasn't frozen in that fear; he grasped at my arm, making sure I was okay. I reassured him, calmly saying my neck was hurt and I wasn't going to move, just in case, but that I was fine. I then sternly said, "I can't look at you. But I need you to look at me. I need you to know that this is not your fault. You did absolutely nothing wrong." He mustered, "I know". But I knew those words might as well have been like Swahili on his tattered heart. Thankfully, his fear and guilt didn't paralyze him: he leapt out of the car and sprinted to find a mile-marker in the pouring rain so that paramedics and firefighters could find us. I couldn't move, scared there might be a serious vertebrae injury, so I was left to feel the emotions thick in the cool morning air. I couldn't see my friend's facial expression, but I might as well have. I imagined the distortion- her furrowed brow and drooped eyes, her hands running over her boyfriend's, over and over and over. Her voice was frantic, but I know her well enough to know what she was thinking: stay calm; protect him; but I also know her well enough to know that it was bad. Her fears and tears were much stronger than her sense of protection. I heard the words "cracked skull" and shivered in my helplessness in the front seat. Had I been able to move, I couldn't have gotten very far, as my door was a crumpled impediment to exiting the vehicle now tangled amidst trees and a stone wall. So, I sat. Between prayers and conversations with friendly paramedics and firefighters, for whom I'm eternally grateful, as they were incredibly kind and worked quickly and furiously to pry off our doors and jettison us out of the car, finally freed my friend in the back seat and put him in an ambulance. They informed me that we'd unfortunately have to be in separate ambulances, and I was actually relieved. As a doer, not a thinker, I couldn't bare hearing his meak and fragile moans to "help me" all the while knowing there was absolutely nothing I could to to help him.
Except pray. And so I did. This was my second lesson learned: I think, so often, my instinct to pray is not my first thought. Or it's my Hail Mary. It's the last line of defense, right? "Well, all we can do is pray." That's all fine and good, if your God is a God who is sitting high and mighty in a position of life or death decisions. I believe my God is. But I also believe my God is a God of the present moment. Of the seconds and yards in between the final countdown. He's not simply waiting for you to call on Him. No, He's acting and moving and making plays before you even realize He is. Thankfully, I was made aware of that by the fact that my body and heart naturally turned to prayer as a defense. I believe this only was possible because of years of practicing this habit. Years of incredible leaders who have poured into me and exhibited this habit. Years of tried-and-failed habits of trying and trying and hustling out of my own grit, only to learn that I am feeble and weak and can only get so far. Yeas of longing and begging to be surrendered, fully, recklessly abandoned to the One who surrendered all just to have me as His own. Years of praying that I thought were forced, meaningless prayers, yet I prayed them anyways. Years of dark days turned into long nights turned into diagnosis after diagnosis. Years of hopelessness and helplessness only lightened by a firm and secure Hope anchoring my soul. Years in counseling and doctors' offices, searching and searching for answers. Years knowing only one Doctor could provide the healing I needed. Thankfully, when it counted, when I truly needed it, when the rubber literally met the road, then spun 360 degrees four times, those years meant something.So why am I telling you this? First, I would love for you to learn what took me so long to learn. I'd love for you to not have to make the same mistakes I have suffered through. If even one person can be spared the heartache I've endured, it would be worth it. I truly mean that. I'd do it all again, if I could encourage one person. So if this encourages you, could you please let me know? It's a little selfish, being that it's cathartic for me, as a lifelong writer (my 6 year-old diaries are hilarious, believe you me). But I really believe this is meant to be for someone else. It's my story, but I pray God uses it to speak life and hope and truth to someone else. And I firmly believe He will. So if you'd be kind to share or send or post and encourage someone today, it would brighten my day. Thank you for stepping into my journey. It's a road that isn't easy, and it ain't always pretty, but there's always the promise and assurance of a gorgeous painting awaiting us just around the curve: splayed out in splendor of cloud and light. So would you join me? I'll be here once a week, maybe more, following the voice of a Shepherd who longs to guide me, but more than that, He just longs to be with me. And He longs to be with you too.I Peter 2:9
