The water bottle, lunch bag, laptop bag, and wad of keys dangle at odd angles from my limbs like leaves about to fall off a nearly bare October branch. A shiver travels my spine as I maneuver through the office door into the adjacent classroom – why is my workspace always so chilly? I enjoy my work in alternative education, but on this particular day I am feeling ready to talk about something other than roots of polynomials or graphs of logarithms. My throat is sore. My eyes feel strangely heavy. My heart has been heavy recently too.

The late afternoon sun settles over me as I dump my belongings in the back seat and crawl in the drivers’ seat of my minivan. Ahhhhh, that’s more like it. Nothing like a warm car after a long day of being just a degree or two cooler than you’d like. My chilled bones sink into the black leather that has been preheating all day for this moment. I let myself sit for a minute, eyes closed, before reluctantly turning the key. I text my sophomore daughter: “I’ll be on Banyan today at 3:20”.

This isn’t safe. Maybe I should stop for an iced coffee? No, my kids are waiting at their own high school the next town over. Stopping would make me late. I’ve got this…just another half hour between me and some chill time…

A foot let off the brake and onto the gas, the car rolling forward up the gradual slope of Carnelian Street. A mile and a half to go until the freeway entrance that would deliver me to the high school and then home.

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I am jolted awake by a loud crunch.

My eyes burst open and I immediately wonder why the truck in front of my vehicle is so close to me. Maybe five feet between my nose and that bumper? Why?

I only have nanoseconds to wonder before the pangs of pain and the realization of the accident hit at the same time.

There’s some smoke coming up from the vehicle, some liquid dripping from it, and a burning deep in my chest. Both arms feel like lead.

Get out of the vehicle.

I have seen too many car explosions in movies to stay where I am. I manage to get the car door open and reach for my phone on the passenger seat, my body protesting every movement, involuntary groans escaping from my lips. After I exit I find that my torso will not cooperate in standing upright. I am in the shape of a croissant as I hobble in front of the car over to the passenger side and collapse in the grass under a tree.

I text my husband, tears blurring my vision as I send a picture of my view of the vehicles from my crumpled state on the ground and the simple phrase “I am injured”. It’s all I can type between moans. His immediate response: “Did you call 911? Where are you?”

I can’t answer.

Layered with the physical pain is the agony I feel awful about my huge mistake, even before knowing the extent of the damage. Are the other people ok? Is anyone else injured? How could I have done this?

I’m relieved to look over and see the other drivers of this three-car pileup are seemingly uninjured and stand a few dozen feet away, texting and calling for help. One of them comes over and says “We’re ok. And it’s a company truck, fully insured, I’m not worried about it. Hope you’re ok…” I manage a nod and smile to acknowledge his kindness. Relieved doesn’t even begin to describe it. I could be tortured for a lifetime with the “What if”…

Yes. I recite my husband’s number and ask her to tell him to pick up the kids. After she does this, she then holds my hand and reminds me to breathe. Over and over, counting my breathing like a doula with a woman in labor. Tells me help is on the way, and eventually (minutes later, but felt like hours…) I hear the siren.

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The next part is a blur – getting loaded on a stretcher, the buzzing of paramedics and law enforcement, my stranger angel saying goodbye once I’m in good hands. The gurney to the ambulance is bumpy – every jostle brings fresh stabs of pain. Once in the ambulance people are hooking me up to things and talking to each other and to me. Asking questions. Medical record number. Symptoms. Preferred hospital. The ambulance feels like a beehive of activity.

Then a warm hand. On my right ankle of all places. This hand wasn’t moving like everyone else touching me. It was steady.

That hand feels different. That’s not a paramedic. I’ve known that hand for 23 years.

I try to lift my head to check, but the pain pins it in place. So I ask, “Is my husband here?”

Him, standing on the street, with his arm reaching up into the beehive – “I’m here.”

He lumbers into the space, approved to enter with a nod by the paramedic, and takes my hand, leaning down by my shoulder.

(Ok look, I’m not proud of what happens next. Brace yourself…)

“What are you doing here?” I ask, “You’re supposed to pick up the KIDS!”

(I know, I know – you want to slap me for saying that. I want to slap me too).

His response comes in a solid voice. No judgement or frustration, just matter of fact. A touch lower than normal volume.

“My wife is in an ambulance. I think I’ll be here.”

Never in my life have a felt more seen or loved (or put in my place) as that moment.

My wife is in an ambulance. I think I’ll be here. He might as well have added a good-natured “thank-you-very-much” to the end of that sentence. My husband had run out of his classroom when he got the call, tracked me, and drove right to the site of the accident just a few miles from his school. The kids could wait, his bride was hurting.

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I’m sure you can imagine there is a lot more to the story. But I’ll push the fast forward button here. I wasn’t having a cardiac event or any life-threatening episode after all. After many tests and long waits at the hospital that night, I was told I broke my back.

And in case you were wondering, the kids were fine. Once I was on my way to the hospital, my husband went and got them, and my phone started pinging with their love and concern. When I arrived home late that night, my son was standing on the porch, hands in the pockets of his fuzzy pajama pants, looking up and down the road for me.

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I don’t believe God caused the accident (it was clearly my negligence that did that). However I do believe He uses events in our lives to accomplish His purposes. He can redeem anything, even my awful mistake. This accident, like every other hardship in my life, has produced a harvest of fruit in me. Life lessons, big and small.

To name a few:

• Don’t drive drowsy, period. Not worth it. Be late if you have to. Pull over immediately. Your body will usually only give you one warning.
• Lend a comforting hand to a stranger in need. Be bold about compassion.
• Put your spouse above the kids.
• Show up for people in their crisis. Text, call, bring meals. I received so much love that it actually made me feel like I was healing faster as a result.
• Place your identity in Christ alone, not in what you accomplish, produce, or provide. Still working on it this.
• God’s presence is found on the sidelines.

But even as the lessons, heartaches, joys, and insights pile up – still, 11 weeks out from this – my favorite takeaway is this one.

My husband’s words, “I think I’ll be here”.

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Even now, still off work after the calendar page turned to a new year and everyone is reinventing themselves, I think I’ll be here. I won’t check out or wish away the time.

In the future, when I get busy again, and there’s always that tug of what’s the next thing, I think I’ll be here. I’ll choose wisely what gets a piece of the day and what to let go, so that I can truly be present.

When someone interrupts me, and grace is not my default response, let my heart remember this phrase, I think I’ll be here. The person in front of me will know I’m in the room, paying attention.

When screen addiction clamors for my attention, let me wrangle it into submission with these words, I think I’ll be here. I’ll tether myself to real life over the digital space.

When I want to shrink back and disappear, because of insecurity and the lies in my head, let me fight the desire to be invisible with this mantra, I think I’ll be here.

It’s ok for me to take up space in the world, to offer my voice, my perspective. To live boldly and in step with my calling and gifts. Because God put me on this planet for a reason, and clearly he’s not done with me.

Psalm 46:10 Be still, and know that I am God