In Memoriam: Tony Schackman

 

I hear the clock making a faint click-click sound while it counts off the seconds. The ceiling fan rotates so fast it makes a noise because the weight of the blades isn’t balanced--I'm just trying to keep air circulating during the current persistent heat, so I kicked up the speed. Traffic passes by quickly outside my front door--back and forth, to and fro. I sit quietly in my rocker, hearing the sounds but not listening. A state of silence comes over me as I listen to my inner thoughts and note my feelings, rather than sounds.

Tomorrow morning at 1 a.m. marks one year since the passing of my partner of six years. A family member asked me a couple of months ago if I had anything special planned. “No. I hadn’t thought of anything.”

This past week has brought forth memories of his final days in a hospice facility. Tears enveloped me when I realized he won't be at my grandgirl's September wedding. The last words he spoke were to her when he said, "I love you," as she said goodby. That was just a day before he passed.

Blessings come in many sizes, shapes, and forms. Mine came in an unexpected, unplanned relationship with a former high school classmate from fifty-five years ago. I didn’t know him then, though he always said he knew me. Silly guy.

At a recent grief support group, the facilitator suggested we describe the person we grieved for. I responded, “Tony was the most real person I’ve ever known. He had zero pretense, no ego, and he accepted me without trying to change me.” I don’t think those qualities can be applied to many who walk this earth.

One year ago today, I sat beside a bed, awaiting the inevitable—the passing of my very dear friend. He was in a place of quiet; he had no requests for pain medicine or cold compresses. He was on his own solitary journey, and all I could do was watch. . . and wait.

I slept in a chair beside the bed that night. Around 10:00 p.m., I awakened with a start. His breathing had changed. I told him how much he was loved, how much he would be missed, and let him know we (all of us left behind) were going to be OK—even though he would no longer be with us. Within three hours, he quietly took his last breath and left.

“We’ve only been together six years,” I told my daughter. "We didn’t have a family together or create decades of family history."

“It’s not the years, it’s the memories,” she so wisely said.

Some days in the calendar year are never forgotten. For me, this is one of those. One year ago today, I was holding the hand of my partner and friend while he was on his way to new adventures in another place. I told him he better be waiting for me when it’s my turn.

 

Death. Grief. Life.

Death: July 17, 2023, I experienced the death and the loss of a loved one.

Grief: Since then, a multitudinous number of emotions, peppered throughout with grief, have taken over my life and my being.

Life: One year later, living with that loss is getting easier.

 

Tony Schackman, you became part of my life—and of my family. You are missed, Tony. We feel your loss and are thankful we had you for as long as we did. And personally, I thank God you were gifted to me. It was the memories, not the years.

I will listen to the silence as the day turns into night. And as the midnight hour approaches, I will quietly wait--just as I did one year ago.

As he faced his final days, Tony asked me if I was going to be OK. I told him I was going to miss him. “You’ll never forget me,” he responded. He was correct on that one.

In Memoriam: Carl Anthony “Tony” Schackman

December 16, 1943--July 17, 2023

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Weeds in Your Garden

weeds: (plural) Any plant unwanted at the place where and at the time it is growing.

 

The plan was to get out in the garden early in the day, before things warmed up. The part I neglected to factor in, though, was the fact I was going to weed the bed on the south side of the house, the sunniest area in my garden. I would need to be out there before sunrise or after sunset in order to avoid the direct sunlight. Undeterred and resolved to get the bed cleaned up, I plopped my sun hat on my head, grabbed my tools, and headed forth on my mission.

Weeds in the garden are a constant battle. I’m on my third round this season trying to bring them under control. I think I’m finished, turn around, and they are smiling brightly at me. And so I begin again.

One particular weed has plagued me ever since I brought in some cheap bird seed that had an abundance of filler seeds. The birds happily spread them throughout my garden space. In addition to flourishing in nurtured soil, the rogue grass is aggressive, taking up residence in cracks in the sidewalk and flooding the rock pathway. Only God knows how many seeds and potential plants there are in a single seed head—and each plant has plenty of them. All it takes is to miss one that goes to seed, and the dirty deed is repeated.

I’m very methodical when I deal with a task like this. I begin at one end of a garden bed and plod along, never looking up to see how far I’ve come or how much more I have left. In the meantime, my mind might be blank or processing recent events and details of my life. Other times, I find I go into “deep thought.” Today was one of those days.

Some feel that weeds are virtuous—a right-to-life philosophy--and need to be treated with respect so they can co-exist in a garden. I do not deny or negate their fact of creation by an intelligent God, but I also consider their nature and growth habit. In my garden, co-existence is unacceptable. A weed left untended, such as that rascally grass, will dominate, denying all other plants nourishment and water. A non-weed plant cannot compete, as its roots are constricted, and its growing area overcome.

Therefore, in a garden of either beauty or vegetables, weeds cannot be ignored. They must be dealt with. For me, that means removal.

No half-hearted or half-measure is appropriate when it comes to getting rid of weeds. They must be removed completely--by the roots. If any hair roots remain in the soil, they sprout again. Whereas most domestic garden plants, whose purpose is to either bloom or be beautifully arrayed with foliage, will die if they are damaged, a weed will shout, “Hello! You thought you were rid of me, didn’t you?”

Where do weeds come from? They come from seeds. What is the viability life of a seed? The record belongs to a 2,000-year-old date palm seed, which is the oldest ever germinated. 600-year-old mustard seeds germinated after being excavated from a Denmark monastery.

Most weed seeds in a typical garden won’t last that long, but some, such as Canada thistle, can last up to two decades.[1] I’ve read that many weed seeds lie dormant in the soil for up to ten years. When we cultivate the soil, we actually bring those seeds to the surface, where they respond to sun and water. It’s ironic, isn’t it? While we try to rid our garden of weeds, we actually create a favorable environment for them to thrive.

Even if one doesn’t have a physical garden—and no desire to have or tend one—we humans have an inner garden, a spiritual one. Tending this garden is of utmost importance. It affects our ability to live well . . . or not.

What constitutes a spiritual weed? And how can it be removed so our inner garden thrives? This kind of weed is anything that distracts, restricts, or prohibits us from living a righteous life. If a habit or character issue prevents us from a life of fulfillment, one with peace and joy, then . . . we have a weed problem. And the Master Gardener needs to do some weed removal, getting to the root of the issue.

Perhaps now would be a good time to sit down and take a good, long, hard look in the proverbial mirror. What in your life is always getting in the way of relationships and health, preventing living life to the fullest? Maybe it’s a life-long habit. There might be a personal trait about yourself you’ve tried to change unsuccessfully, such as selfishness or anger. Then again, perhaps it’s something like regret or bitterness that consistently and persistently hinders your freedom to live unencumbered.

You may or may not believe in God. That’s OK. The truth is you have been created by Him. He loves and cares for every detail about you. Take this honest, personal assessment about yourself before Him. After all, most of us want to live the best version of ourselves, don’t we?

That can only happen at His Hand. He truly is the Master Gardener, and He is capable of getting those spiritual weeds out by the root.

I finished weeding the bed. I even accomplished more than I expected when I grubbed the evil grass weed from the rock pathway. Am I finished? Of course not. There are always more areas needing weed removal—both in my physical garden and my spiritual garden.

As much as I despise them, the weeds in my garden never magically disappear during the night while I am sleeping. I have to deal with them in a personal manner. They're also never a "one and done" situation; they literally crop up overnight. The same is true of spiritual weeds. I need to plant myself before God so He can shed light on my inner garden and eradicate them--repeatedly.

I challenge you to do the same. It is the only way to become the best version of you!

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[1] Gardeningknowhow.com

While I Was Eating My Breakfast Burrito

The outing had been “in the works” for two weeks. My friend and I were going to visit the Owen Rose Garden, a jewel in my local area. Since both of us are recently retired, we have been trying to have some new and different kinds of experiences. The plan was to visit the gardens then go out to lunch.

Even though there was a brief period of rain showers, we deemed the excursion successful. The roses were breathtaking in their floral grandeur. A sensory response that resulted in “Oohs” and “Wows!” was created by displays of large beds of the same type with their mass of color and beauty.  Clusters of roses in a variety of hues resembled bridal bouquets that were waiting to be cut. They displayed varying stages of bloom, from buds to full, mature blossoms. Their fragrance filled the air at one point as we walked from bed to bed, witnessing a kaleidoscope of color.

As we headed off to lunch, my friend and I mutually agreed the idea had been a good one.

We ate lunch at a small restaurant that specializes in hiring those with disabilities, providing the opportunity for employment for some who might fall through the cracks. We’ve eaten there before. The food is good, as is the service. I ordered a breakfast burrito, knowing I could bring the leftovers home.

We chatted while eating and caught up on one another’s recent activities. As is typical, the conversation never skipped a beat as we moved from one topic to another.

With hunger kept at bay and my leftover burrito in tow, I dropped my friend off at her home and headed towards mine—after stopping by the store to purchase some allergy medicine.

The emergency flashing lights caught my eye as soon as I turned onto my street. I calculated them to be very near my house. Fire? No. But as I got closer, I saw fire trucks and an emergency medical truck parked at the neighbor’s.

The dwelling is a duplex, and the young woman who lives in the unit nearest me was standing outside her door. I crossed the street and asked if she knew what was happening. She had just returned home as well but shared the EMTs took paddles for resuscitation into the home of her next-door neighbor. It appeared the gentleman was in serious condition.

We waited and watched. It wasn’t long before he was brought out on a stretcher, but urgency was not in play. One of the paramedics asked the young woman if she knew of his next of kin. They weren’t free to share information, but the emergency responders left without any sirens or flashing lights. We concluded he had passed.

“I just talked with him yesterday,” the young woman said.

He died while I was eating my breakfast burrito, was my thought.

Death is sobering, perhaps one of the most sobering of humankind’s shared experiences. The finality. The unknown. The lack of control. The universal, common, inevitability—and unpredictability--of it all.

Death has been lurking around the corner, lying just beyond the periphery of my vision. It comes into focus when I turn and look it squarely in the eye. The one-year anniversary of my partner’s passing is a month away. I’ve been attending a weekly grief support group recently, an intense time revolving around loss and grief. I met with a local funeral home this past week as I hope to leave my family unencumbered by any decision-making. And I came home to the reality of my neighbor’s death.

The fact is my neighbor wasn’t the only one who passed from an earthly experience into an eternal one while I was eating my breakfast burrito. It is estimated throughout each day over 160,000 world citizens die; nearly 7,000 pass per hour; 116 per minute.[1] Scores of people passed over into eternity as I was quietly minding my own business. The clincher is that the same will take place for the rest of the world when it is my turn.  

This almost-80-year-old has my own unique set of life perspectives. They range from taking guilt-free naps to gauging my steps carefully in order to stay upright to facing a shortened future. For me, “end of life” has taken on a new meaning: reality.

I suspect my neighbor did not awaken yesterday morning with the knowledge his physical life was coming to an end that day. Then again, perhaps he was given that. I cannot presume otherwise.

Many times, however, humankind lives as though there is no end, no next step after the heart stops beating and life is removed. An invincibility reigns in some, a gross misstep.

Preparation for the next life, life after death, is important. 

Jesus put that into focus when he related a parable about a man, his wealth, and his goals: The land of a rich man produced an abundant, bumper crop. He had so much he didn’t know where to store it. “Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’”

There was a glitch in his thought process, though, one he had not planned for. . . his mortality. "But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’”[2] Jesus then went on to say that this is what will happen when one stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.

I view death as any other situation in life. You’re either prepared. . . or you’re not. I do not fear death. My life is in the hands of my Creator. He and He alone can prepare me for that experience when I come face to face with Him.

Get your spiritual house in order. You don’t have all day, you know. 😊

We come into this world alone; we leave it alone.

 

“…prepare to meet your God.”

Amos 4:12

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[1] https://worldpopulationreview.com > countries > deaths-per-day

[2] Luke 12: 18-20 NRSVUE

The Grass is Green Where You Water

abandon ship: v. To leave or forsake a ship due to its impending doom. To leave a person or organization when things become difficult.

 

People are always jumping ship, bailing when the current situation gets hard. Couples may find it easier to leave a marriage when the honeymoon has passed, and the grind of daily life takes over. The thrill of the new job wears off when its schedule interrupts personal activities, and co-workers become annoying. The friend who promised to be there “through thick and thin,” is missing in action when you really need them. “Sorry. I’m busy right now.”

A common thread runs through this kind of person. They are unreliable and lack commitment.

'The grass is greener on the other side’ often motivates actions as people feel their own life would be better or happier in a different job, situation, or location. Many in this world are never satisfied with their current state and are in a constant, elusive search for happiness and contentment.

Reliability is a quiet, stalwart quality within a person. You’ll not find a billboard proclaiming its presence; you’ll not even be aware of it when you meet them. Notice is given, however, as everyday life plays out…and when pressure is present. You can depend on them; they are steady, strong, and true.

When you add in commitment, you have a person who makes a difference, whatever the circumstances.

I was watching a post-game interview yesterday with a young female basketball player whose dream and goal of winning a national championship for her team had just come to an end. She was questioned by a reporter about prior decisions she had made to stay with a coach, school, and its program when she probably had multiple opportunities to transfer.

As a counter to the common 'green grass' phrase, she said, “The grass is green where you water." Profound. Wise.

She watered the grass around her well. Her leadership, composure, and steadfast traits brought her team into an enviable position for any college team—one team out of eight in the nation, three wins away from becoming the NCAA champions.

Did she do it by herself? Of course not. The team is filled with talent; the coach is consistent in his approach to making the girls part of a family; the supporting staff and the fans flesh it all out. But she made a difference.

There is a spiritual application here. A walk of faith is sometimes difficult. By its very nature, we are called to live without sight—both spiritual and physical. We are asked to rely upon an unseen, invisible spirit and promises He has made. Many times the silence is deafening as we struggle to find purpose, not only in our lives, but in things that happen to us and around us.

The temptation to give up, forsake it all, and find what feels like an easier way may present itself. Focus on the present; remember the past. Live life seeking and trusting the One who has brought you to this point. You’ll not be disappointed.

Be that reliable, committed person who makes a difference by living an unwavering life with God, your Creator--even if all you can muster at the moment is a small watering can. You might even get some daisies along with the green grass.

“The grass is green where you water.”

The Final Straw

 the final/last straw: n. The last in a series of bad things that happen to make someone very upset angry, etc.

 

I wonder if I’m having a nervous breakdown.

I hadn’t thought of that term in years. You don’t hear it that often anymore. “Psychotic episodes” and “mental issues” are more likely to be used when describing a person falling apart emotionally, one who is unable to deal with everyday life in a rational, sane manner.

I was reminded of an uncle who struggled with his “nerves.” Given sparse information and, with the memory and impressions of a child, I recalled his being given time off from work and going to either the coast or the mountains for a respite. He would return and go back to work—until the pressures again became too much for him.

Seventy years ago families, let alone society, didn’t openly discuss problems, whether they were physical, mental, financial, or addictive. It was a time of kept secrets, behind closed doors. What was he going through? What was he experiencing and feeling? And why?

I wondered if he felt what I was feeling. Or vice versa. Perhaps I was feeling what he felt: helplessness over situations and circumstances he couldn’t control; his mind and being filled with frustration and anger; traveling through a tunnel of darkness with no hope of an end in sight.

A variety of stress tests are available online. They are designed to assess changes in your life and evaluate one’s level of stress. Illness, job change, loss, and financial issues are just a few that are addressed. I checked one out, and, if I wanted to set a standard for meeting the definition of stress, I would be the winner.

As a person of faith, “being in a state of stress” has never been a description I’ve considered for myself; however, “having a nervous breakdown” isn’t one I’ve thought about applying personally either. I am, however, human.

My family had been commenting repeatedly on the change: “Mom, I hate seeing you so angry.”

“I want my old Mom back.”

“Mom, to be honest, I’m concerned.”

I made a mental checklist using the fingers on my hand to appraise the last three or so years of my life: retirement—check; reduced income—check; terminal illness and subsequent death of a partner—check; Near Death Experience when a drunk driver almost killed me while I stood at a crosswalk—check; new neighbors—double, triple, quadruple check.

The first five have been a piece of cake compared to the last one. I do not want to malign my neighbors personally. However, I would suggest to any who read this: do not set about to establish an urban farm in the city without proper knowledge. Figure out how to contain and care for your animals before embarking on your dream. Your neighbors won’t be as thrilled as you when your farm animals repeatedly escape and wreak havoc.

For the past three years, I’ve dealt with loose bunnies, free range chickens, a flock of a dozen Muscovy ducks, and four barking dogs. Rather, I’ve tried dealing with their owners. My frustrations fell on deaf ears with no effort or apparent desire to rectify any issue. As a footnote, the city’s Animal Service Control and I are on a first name basis.

The final straw came recently when the large German Shepherd began climbing over the fence into my back yard—day after day. He trampled the emerging hosta starts, barked at me in my own yard, and frightened me with his aggressive behavior. The city was unable to do anything due to understaffing; the owners, as usual, did not answer the phone when I called.

Frustration gave way to anger. Anger gave way to seething anger. Seething anger gave way to an explosion. While I was embarrassed and mortified over my base emotional explosion, at the same time I was proud I finally stood up for myself. On a scale of 1-10, I was maxed out at a 10+++. D U N—DONE! I am definitely human.

When the owners left after retrieving their dog from my backyard for the fifth time in six days, they had to know that, after three years, my patience had run out. Period. Unapologetically period.

Humankind thinks of God as being without limits, that He is forever patient, forgiving, and longsuffering. While He is all of those things, He does, however, have a breaking point and operates within a time frame. When time is up, that’s it. Time’s up.

For what it’s worth, that is how this situation feels as well. Three years is a long time to spend in an ongoing battle with those who won’t meet halfway when valid issues and concerns are presented.

I had no idea I was so angry, but now that the pressure cooker exploded, I can say I am relieved. Was it the better way? It doesn't feel like it. Is anger my first option in relationships? Of course not, and I have taken that up with God. As I communicated repeatedly to the recipients of my anger, “It didn’t have to be this way.”  

A relationship with God is no different. If He is ignored, given no consideration, and tromped on, He takes action when “Time’s up.” What does that mean? He never stops loving, but He never forces Himself on anyone. He wants to be wanted. I feel He walks away.

It doesn’t have to be that way, but what is He to do?

I am of the belief and conviction there is a point and purpose to everything that happens in my life. What is the point? What is the purpose in these past three years? I will say, unequivocally, that God is faithful--even in the hard times. He did not make it easy, but He has been with me every step of the way as He helped create a stronger version of me--not through any strength or will of my own. 

By the way, I did not have a nervous breakdown. I was brought through the tunnel of darkness by God and came out the other end.

Plus--the dog is unable to enter my yard due to a barricade I put in place after tiring of waiting for a "solution" on the part of his owners. They have been careful—at least for the moment—to keep the barker away from my bedroom window at night. Perhaps they understand I reached “The Final Straw.” I can hope.

 

“…weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”

Psalm 30:5

Lasts. Firsts.

 

 

“Are you okay, Mom? How are you doing with this?”

“I’m fine,” was my response. That might not have been the whole truth.

Firsts can be hard—that first baby step, the first day of school, a first holiday without a parent, friend, spouse, or partner; the first gardening season after retirement or first plane flight.

Lasts are no different; they can be dificult as well. Firsts and lasts both mark a transition, a point of crossing over from one way of life or experience into another. The common base is that of the unknown. As humans, we most often prefer familiar rather than the unfamiliar.

Firsts constitute a beginning; lasts, an ending.

My five grandgirls are the joys of my life. I take great pride and pleasure in each of them. Over the last twenty or so years, I have been privileged to be a sideline spectator as they pursued a variety of interests and activities, including their “firsts.” Their sports or performance schedule was mine as I entered every game or event into my calendar.

Softball, dance, volleyball, basketball, golf, wrestling. I spent hour upon hour “hootin' and hollering” (not so much for dance or golf 😊), as I cheered on the team and my favorite players.

They had no skills in the beginning and struggled, but they kept going. I loved seeing them grow and develop. My pride was blatantly evident while fulfilling the spectator role.

The final season for this Grandmother came to an end when the little pit bull completed her wrestling as a senior--a "last." How am I? I am sad but very grateful for the opportunities to be part of their lives in this way. And I wouldn't trade all the money in the world for it--time well spent.

What’s that saying?—“All good things must come to an end.” And it has been good! My heart is filled with priceless memories—and some amazing videos to-boot!!

I am blessed. And I am looking forward to the next “firsts” these girls will bring into my life. May your "lasts" be filled with the hope of joyful "firsts" as well.

 

 

 

 

 

On Inches and Seconds

            He almost killed me. I didn’t see him coming.

It was an ordinary day—at least it felt and seemed that way. The winter solstice brought with it more daylight hours and the appearance of a false Spring, which typically shows up around Groundhog Day. Harbingers of the real Spring have instilled a “life-is-good” feeling in the air.

At the end of the day, I readily deemed the day anything and everything but…ordinary. It was one of the most extraordinary days of my life, one ruled and measured by “inches and seconds.”

Mailing my grandgirl’s handmade birthday card occupied the #1 item on my to-do list. I wanted to make certain she received it in time for her big day. The “one who made me a Nana,” was going to turn twenty-five, a staggering reality. Where did the time go? How did it pass so quickly? She lives out-of-state, preparing for a September wedding. I used the photo she sent me of Goose, her new kitty, to create a one-of-a-kind card. It carried the inscription “Have a Fabulous Birthday” on the front, and I included “From Goose and Nana” as part of the birthday greeting. I was anxious and excited for her to receive the special card.

Apparently, my mailman has been coming early these days. I took the card to the mailbox around noon, but at 1:30, the still-upright flag on the box indicated he had already come and gone. The card wouldn’t be picked up until the next day. Should I walk down to the local mailbox center to mail it? Or should I drive?

I decided I needed some fresh air and could easily deal with the drizzle of the day, so I grabbed my umbrella and donned my rain shoes and raincoat. The half-mile jaunt down to the local strip mall, the location of the mailbox center, doesn’t take long, around twenty minutes. I walk it regularly, as one of the most economical grocery stores in the city is situated there as well.

Early afternoon was a good time of day to walk past the local high school. Around lunch time and later in the day, it appears as though a dam has broken as students flood the sidewalks, grocery store, and fast-food places in the immediate area.

I couldn’t think of any food items I needed, so skipped a grocery store run and headed for the mailbox sitting outside the mailbox center and dropped the card in. Mission accomplished.

Traffic in this area is almost always hectic. Cars, trucks, buses, and commercial vehicles pack the roadways. The grocery store, fast-food restaurants, the nearby high school and middle school, plus an auto parts store, drug store, and several food trucks create a climate for heavy pedestrian traffic as well.  Ramps accessing Beltline Highway, a main thoroughfare in the city, are a couple of blocks away. Drivers are usually in a rush. No one ever goes slow.

I am a creature of habit. Walking to and from the grocery store and mailbox center, I always cross Barger Drive, a heavily traveled and trafficked four-lane street, at one specific crosswalk. Walking back home, I approached the crosswalk for the umpteenth time. The pedestrian traffic signal includes a voice feature for those who are blind. Pushing the button activates a voice, which indicates the need to wait—or walk.

I was the only person at the crosswalk. I pushed the button and began my wait for the signal to announce I could safely cross. The traffic signals take some time running through their cycle of controlling multiple lanes of traffic moving in a variety of directions—stop, go, left turn, right turn, moving forward. As a pedestrian, it isn’t unusual to wait a while.

The rain was light, but I kept the umbrella in place, a protection and shield. The sweatshirt hood and the hood of my raincoat were pulled up on my head as well, blocking out any side vision. My eyes were focused on the signal on the other side of the street.

Out of nowhere, a speeding car careened around me—behind me. Not in front of me, on the street, but on the sidewalk at my back. The red, medium-sized sedan was no more than a foot away as it passed. I could have easily reached out and touched it. In shock, I watched as the driver then slowly drove down the sidewalk. His reduction in speed may have been the result of damage caused to his tires and/or wheels when he accelerated over cement obstructions between the street and sidewalk.

I stood at the crosswalk, unsure what to do. I don’t remember having a single conscious thought other than to take a video to share with my children before the rain washed away the evidence. Those in the flow of traffic following behind the driver witnessed what had just occurred. The driver had turned left from his two-lane street and crossed four lanes of stopped traffic. But he was going so fast, he swung wide—severely, excessively wide.

 Several showed their care by slowing down and asking if I was okay. “Yes. I’m fine.” And I was. I was in one piece. An older couple was particularly concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I heard the suggestion as it came out of my mouth, bypassing my mind. “Get his license plate.” They sped off. I was still standing at the crosswalk when they circled back around to check on me again. They shared that they were able to obtain the license plate number and reported it to the authorities. By the time I called the police they were already pursuing him. When they contacted me two hours later, they had him in custody. What are the odds?!

The video I took of the car’s tire tracks in relation to where I was standing is a telling picture. Often, I stand quite a distance away from the curb while waiting because cars take that corner fast. This time, I didn’t. My typical position would have placed me in the direct line of the vehicle. Thankfully, I did not see him coming. I suspect my instincts would have been to react. One step back would have been fatal; one step forward into Barger traffic would have been no better.

My Idaho daughter called that evening to check in on me. She thought the shock might be delayed but commented, “I can tell you’re fine, Mom.” As we talked, I realized how much God spared me. My only memory is the blurb of a red car sweeping past me. I have no trauma- or nightmare-causing images imbedded in my mind of a car coming around the corner, heading straight for me. I imagine those in the cars following him suffered more than I as they witnessed an accident waiting to happen.

“Inches and seconds,” she said. Indeed.

I am pressing charges as the victim of reckless endangerment. When the police contacted me, telling me they had him in custody, I asked if he had the bejeebers scared out of him.

 “Not really.”

“He should have,” I responded. Knowing the officer couldn’t really answer, I had to ask anyway. “Was he under the influence of drugs or alcohol?”

“It appears…” An answer without answering.

As I told the police officer, “I am not a victim. I’m safe, sitting here in my rocking chair. I am pressing charges, though, on behalf of any future, potential victim.”

It is better this person is held accountable for his actions now instead of having to deal with the possible future liability and responsibility of causing very serious, life-threatening injuries or even a fatality. It may be hard for him, but at least it isn’t horrible. He might not realize it, but he was granted grace this time. It is a miracle he didn’t hit me. He could have killed me.

 How close can you come to being maimed, injured, or even killed and come out unscathed? “Inches and seconds.” Being in the right spot…at the right time. Only God.

And, as my son said, “Pedestrians and cars don’t end well.”

 

“To God be the glory, great things He hath done…”

To God Be the Glory, written by Frances J Crosby (Fanny Crosby) 1875