Sunday, November 4, 2012


Right after the car accident on a late September morning when our van was struck by a motorcycle running a red light, I didn't feel God's grace. Later, I did reflect how greatly I felt His love through the kindness of my fellow human beings, in the words of two gentlemen who took the time to stop and reassure, in the cheerful, calm way the firemen comforted and distracted my children and did for them what I couldn't do, in the steady help of the police and EMTs, in the face of my husband as he bent over me, weeping, in critical care. But I didn't even pray right after the collision, not even a cry of Father help me! That shows, I think, how stunned I was. My poor littlest children were left adrift in their terror and confusion while I tried myself to come back to my moorings.

But finally settled in my hospital room, fully awake from the anesthesia, I felt the surge of God's grace. It was like a physical, radiating presence. I don't doubt that such usually only happens with the prayers of many people. I felt fortunate, vital, able to calculate my extraordinary blessings. I felt that God had mitigated circumstances so that my young children would remain unharmed. So intensely happy was I that the motorcyclist who t-boned us did not hit the van farther back, and I worried more about how my kids would be able to process it all than I did about the discomfort of my manageable injuries, by then dulled with pain relievers.

Yet when I felt God's presence the most, when I felt that He was truly pleased with me, as if He stood at the foot of my bed smiling on His child, was when I forgave the motorcyclist who ran that red light, injuring me and endangering my children.

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