Days Ordained

The rain came down hard last night and it was cold. In the dark I moved in closer to Jon for warmth and for comfort, and I couldn't help but to think back just a few years ago and recognize that I nearly lost my husband.

It was a morning just like the one we had today, with gentle rain and gloomy clouds. Today marks the anniversary of the head on collision Jon and Andrew survived; though I no longer talk about it a great deal in person, the events of that day and the months to follow have impacted me to such an extent that I cannot keep my thoughts from lingering on those memories.

This morning, as I sat on the arm of the chair Jon was seated in, I mentioned today was the day of the accident. He had forgotten. He's different from me, and doesn't dwell on things the same way. Me, I've been remembering nearly every single day for a month now in anticipation of December 13,  and possibly every single day of every single month since it happened. The events of that day changed me.

It was a Saturday, and I had gotten up early to read my Bible and then exercise before the day started. In the darkness as I stretched, I remember being filled with fear that I would become a widow. Fear doesn't grip me like this very often, and knowing that it was not beneficial to be overcome by such things, I gave those feeling up to the Lord. I prayed that I would still trust in His goodness for me should He take Jon away. I prayed that I would not dishonor His name, even if the unthinkable came to be.

A couple hours later Jon took Andrew, who was just four years old and still in his fuzzy blue jammies,  to pick up some bagels for a breakfast treat. They had been gone just a short while when I received a call from a shaky voiced woman informing me of a terrible accident. She cried. All she could say was that Jon was still alive, implying that he might not make it. My thoughts immediately went back, and I wondered if the Lord had been preparing me just a few hours earlier for something terrible. I began to brace myself.

It is well with my soul...

On the phone the paramedics wouldn't give me hope either, other than to confirm Jon's present state of being alive. I waited for the ambulance to arrive, supernatural peace and gut-wrenching fear intermingled.

It was a terrible day. Many terrible days followed, but this was the most terrible.

After some time --after witnessing pools of blood beneath the stretcher, and catching fleeting glimpses of his bloodied body past the attending medics-- the confirmation that he would survive was indescribable relief. And it lifted me up and gave me the strength to receive the news of Andrew's condition: A broken neck, they said, of the worse category.

But they were both alive.

Blessed be the Name of the Lord...

I remember this day like no other. I remember it better than the day I was married, better than the days my children were born, and I can't help but to remember it again today. Jon, on the other hand, hardly remembers it. His mind cannot recall the minutes before the collision, and the black-out and concussion he incurred kept him from remembering much else. Then the pain-killers, of course, numbed the days that followed. Oh, it was a bad day for him, obviously, but I don't think it has impacted him the same way it has impacted me.

I remember a nightmare... Of kissing my husband good-bye just as he came out of surgery and as the team of doctors from the children's hospital prepared to load Andrew up and take us away. I remember a nightmare in the PICU next to my baby whose head bore screws drilled into his skull, and of more terrible news to bare and decisions to face alone. I remember not having a place to sleep, or the ability to sleep. I remember a scared little boy whose personality was at times unrecognizable due to a cocktail of medicines, and I remember the soft whisper of the aspirating tube I held in case he should vomit. You can't turn a broken neck or move a body suspended in sand bags. Vomit could result in aspiration, and in my exhaustion I sat poised for action.

I remember the screams of a mother down the hall whose child, I assume, did not live.

I remember my three other children needing their mother. I remember feeling so powerless.

Yes, and I remember being upheld, I remember peace. And hope. I remember hope.

Those events, those days, and those experiences-- they have all changed me. They have left me more vulnerable, more grateful, and more keenly aware that my days are ordained by my loving heavenly Father.

I didn't read much of my Bible during our hospital days. I don't think I read it much during the weeks that followed. The only passage I remember turning to was Philippians 4:4-9. It became my theme verse. Interestingly, it is the very text Jon has been preaching through on Sunday mornings.

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you."

I don't wish the accident had never happened; it was God's perfect plan for us and produced in us what was not previously there. Clearly His ways are not my ways because I would never have chosen such a thing for our family, but I believe with full conviction that His ways are always good. Always good...


(If you are interested, I posted some thoughts and pictures here last year.)
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Andrew, my fierce little survivor, celebrated his 8th birthday just two weeks ago.

Sweet little boy. Precious to me like I can't explain.

He's gentle and kind, freakishly determined (not in a stubborn way, just super goal oriented), and sympathetic to the needs of others. And those dimples-- which he is becoming self-consicous about because people comment on them frequently-- suit his charming personality. His look and his charm are very much like his daddy's, so it's no wonder I gush over this little boy of mine!

And just like he was in the intensive care unit, trying desperately to fight back fear and tears, he still works hard at covering up a soft interior. He's still my Boo-Boo Bear.

His birthday was a fun day, despite rain and a resulting change of plans. We had some of his friends over for the afternoon, and they celebrated boy-style with noise volumes that went through the roof!

Eight is a fun age for boys! Here's how he was this morning when I came down to make breakfast this morning:

Play is very serious, and all things serious turn to play. That's the life of an 8 year old boy!

I love you dearly and thank God for you, Andrew.


~Katherine