Lost Shoes

The bright summer sun bounced off of the twisted metal and shattered glass of the Chevy Blazer. Slivers of glass and blood covered the seat and my hand reached out to measure the distance between the crushed roof and the headrest where Jessica last sat. I quickly turned my face away from the wreckage and walked back toward my own car, seeking refuge for my tearing eyes and heavy heart as my brother searched in vain for the favorite pair of shoes that were lost somewhere during the confusion of rescue workers and helicopter rides to Chapel Hill. Several months would pass before I would understand the significance of that day and I could relinquish my guilt.

I had nothing to do with this accident. I was safe, many miles away in my home, when my sixteen year old niece was returning to a church camp with several other counselors and would roll her SUV over multiple times, breaking her neck and arm. Her best friend was thrown from the backseat and died instantly in the middle of the dark country road, a mere half mile from the turn off to the camp. Jessica was airlifted to NC Memorial Hospital in Chapel Hill and would have neurosurgery within the next twenty four hours. The other counselors in the car were bruised and battered, but no one had injuries as severe as hers. We all sat in a huddle in the waiting room, in shock and disbelief, until we received the news that she would fully recover with no disabilities. Even though the impact of the collision had snapped her vertebrae, the break was such that no motor skills were damaged. She would have a metal plate and pins in her neck and a scar that would be covered by her long blonde hair. The relief we felt was overshadowed by the fact that someone would have to tell her about Ricky’s death.

I have always considered myself a spiritual person. Even before I truly came to know Jesus, I knew Him and sensed a purpose for my life. My life is not always orderly. Yes, there are some things that I can be compulsive about, but in other ways, I am a fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl. Mentally, I tend to be all over the place, so I don’t really have a structured prayer life. Of course, I pray. Some days I feel like every thought is a prayer, and I am a strong advocate of prayer; I understand its power. Back in 2001, our bible study was ending at the end of April and our group wanted to keep meeting until the end of May. Our leader decided to help us put together prayer journals. She was so organized in her prayer life. Every day she prayed for a different set of needs . We put together our journals in class, of course, making them “pretty”, and she gave us detailed instructions as to how to go about organizing our own prayer life. I really enjoyed this process. I listed every significant person in my life and my desires for them or the areas in which I felt they needed prayer. My niece Jessica had just gotten her license. She was such a good kid. (still is, but now she’s a woman, yes that’s me cringing) Smart, beautiful on the inside and outside, kind hearted, generous, sorry, I’m gushing. Anyway, I listed safety on the highway, wisdom with friends, career selection, future husband, everything I could think of for Jessica. I truly began praying everyday for these needs, but as is my random nature, I abandoned that rigidity soon after I started.

When I got the call about Jessica’s accident. I was ravaged by guilt. I should have prayed every day. How could I have left those prayers for her dangling out in the air? Where was my spiritual discipline? So many things go through your mind when you are burdened with grief and fear of the unknown. The trip from Fayetteville to Chapel Hill was heavy with remorse. I do not have children, my nieces and nephews are the closest I will ever come to being a parent, but that day, I understood the anguish that a mother must feel when her child is in pain. I wanted to bear that pain, both the physical and the emotional pain, for her. I wanted to spare her this baggage I knew she would carry for the rest of her life. God worked many miracles during that horrible time, some where physical, some spiritual. The staff and members of White Plains Methodist Church in Cary poured their love out like drink offering to Jessica and her family. My brother attended Ricky’s funeral on Jessica’s behalf and heard Ricky’s father profess Ricky’s great love for Christ and his best friend Jessica. He spoke of forgiveness and healing and celebrated the fact that on the last day of his life Ricky spent it in the presence of good friends eating pizza and having fun, and that as a father he was thankful that he knew Ricky was in heaven. What a blessing that my brother who rarely attends church could see the love of Christ in action.

I believe that God ordered my steps the day I saw the wreckage. My brother was left at the hospital without a car and I just happened to be there. Jessica wanted her dad to look for her favorite, worn in just right, Birkenstocks. I drove him to the garage where the car was parked. I saw the crushed frame and the busted glass where Jessica was sitting. I also saw God’s hand protecting her, holding her back firm against the headrest, allowing the break in her neck in just the right place, shielding her young beautiful face from the flying glass. He was there with her protecting her just as I had prayed. Several months would pass before I could come to terms with Jessica’s accident. The Lord reminded me that my trials shaped me and Jessica’s trials will shape her into the courageous Christian woman that He wants her to be. You, see, Jessica loves Christ and after all, He is in control.

I saw a tee shirt this summer that I really loved. It said,
“Scars are just tattoos with better stories.”

We all have scars, some are physical, but they all remind us that God is our Jehovah Raah, our shepherd and protector.

Proverbs 18:10
The name of the Lord is a strong tower. The righteous run to it and are safe.

Cocooning

Right now I am basking in the luxury of a lazy, rainy afternoon. Every living thing except for me is slumbering somewhere in the house so I can cruise the 'net without guilt. I have pizza dough rising in the oven for supper and the new Indiana Jones movie from Netflix ready to go for later this evening. MMMMMMMMMM life is good.

Courtship

Nick and I have a unique story. We met in the 11th grade in French III class. I was Colette and he was Jean Paul. We became fast friends and spent many hours together. I had no idea that his feelings were more than platonic. I went on my way, being infatuated and obsessed with a couple of different guys. Right before we were to part for our senior year of college, he abruptly dropped me. My calls went unanswered and any plans we had made were ignored. Bewildered and angry, I returned to Chapel Hill as a persona non grata in search of a new touchstone. We would not exchange more than a few forced cordial words for twelve years. I remained angry for many of those years. It was an anger born of pain and ignorance. Eventually, I stopped wondering. One evening in May of 1993, the phone rang at my brother’s house (where I just happened to be living at the time) and Nick was on the line. In my excitement to catch up with my old friend, I had forgotten that I wasn’t speaking to him. He had tracked me down after all those years in what could only be explained as God’s hand moving in our lives. We began regular phone conversations and he finally revealed the real reason for our separation, his total and complete love for me which he feared revealing. He decided he could no longer be my friend, yet the potential consequences of telling me his feelings kept him silent. I hate to admit it, but he probably did the right thing. At the time, my unnatural obsession with a guy who could care less about me dictated my alliances. I believe God had great work for Nick to do, and He needed me out of the way. The maturity required of a minister’s wife danced just out of my reach. When I was ready to accept the task, God brought us together. The shock from Nick’s congregation was palpable. He had been at this church for six years and he was the beloved single pastor who they protected as their own child. “Who is this woman? Where did she come from? How long has he known her?” were some of the most obvious questions. Only a few of Nick’s closest friends knew the whole story. The truth overwhelmed me; I can only imagine the surprise to everyone else! After our first reunion, I thought I had blown it. I went to Lynchburg for the weekend. Friday afternoon we went to a church softball game. Before we left Nick’s house we had fixed drinks for ourselves because the field had no concession stand. We had to cross an open field to get to the ball game. I am walking along and I step in a hole. I fall on my knees and my drink which must have been at least 32 ounces, flies out of my hand and pours over my head. My knee is bleeding and my long curly hair is dripping with sticky Mountain Dew. I am trying to get myself together when I notice the look of horror on Nick’s face. When I fell, I exclaimed, “Oh s%*@!” When he finally regained his composure, he helps me up and we proceed to the bleachers, in silence. The rest of the weekend was uneventful. After I left, Nick told some of his friends that he was afraid I had changed too much. We continued to talk on the phone and then started to visit more often and then decided to get married. His friend asked him about his impression after that first weekend and Nick told her, “She’s my diamond in the rough.” Nick loves to tell me that when I get too rowdy. No one could have been a better match for me. We are like two sides of the same seashell, opposite, yet the same.

He is trusting and loving; I am skeptical and reticent.
He is optimistic and sunny; I am negative and moody.
He is generous and forgiving; I am frugal and suspicious.
He is laid back and meandering; I am intense and directed.
He is tactful; I am blunt.

Yet God blends our personalities in perfect balance. Together our weaknesses become strengths. Who would have guessed what could come after,
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Collette.”