a senseless tragedy
This morning when my daughter called, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Her voice was heavy, flat—strangely detached.
“Mom.”
“You sound odd. Did you just wake up?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have terrible news . . .”
My mind raced. I knew someone had died.
It couldn’t be my granddaughter or son-in-law; if it were, she would have been inconsolable.
One of their closest family friends—a mother of five—had been killed in a car accident. A friend had been driving and walked away from the wreck. She did not.
A senseless tragedy.
Her youngest child isn’t even a year old—still breastfeeding. She was a warm, spirited, homeschooling mother who adored her children and had one of the sharpest senses of humor I’ve ever known. Just over a year ago, I was at her baby shower. We laughed about how giving away all her baby gear had apparently invited this fifth pregnancy. She was radiant, so happy to be expecting again.
Now her baby won’t even remember her.
All day I’ve felt heavy, like lead. The two families—the one who lost her, and the one whose member was driving—had been the closest friends for over 30 years. I kept wondering: can that kind of friendship survive a horror like this? The driver had been going to fast, and they’d all had drinks with dinner.
why didn’t god save her?
At supper tonight, my little girls fidgeted and wanted to talk about this lady whose children they’ve played with at Nanny’s house—Nanny being my granddaughter’s other grandmother.
“Why didn’t God save her, Mom?” they ask.
I stared at them, unsure how to respond.
“I don’t know,” I finally said.
“I don’t know if God is involved in car wrecks. I don’t know what God is doing in moments like this. I wish I had an answer. I’ll think about it—but right now, I just don’t know.”
I added, “I do know she loved God, and she taught her children about a loving God. I hope they’re all feeling that love and comfort now.”
Even as I spoke, my words rang hollow.
punishments
Later, my husband and I watched news coverage of the accident. The screen showed the wreckage—twisted metal, crumpled glass. During an interview, a nearby resident who’d seen the aftermath said of the driver, “I hope he goes to prison for life. That’s what he deserves.”
Is this the propitiation when mommies die?
today
Husband and I get out of bed every morning. We brush our teeth.
We make the coffee and tea. We brush our hair. We wake up the kids, and make breakfast. We do what mothers and fathers do.
Sometimes the children complain. They take us for granted—we take ourselves and each other for granted, too.
We assume we’ll live through today.
We assume we’ll live through tomorrow.
We assume we’ll escape senseless tragedy.
We assume we’ll grow old and avoid the worst kinds of loss.
When my husband leaves for work, I never think, “This may be the last time I see him alive. Tonight, I could be asked to identify his body.”
We don’t turn the key in the ignition thinking, “Today I’ll accidentally take a life.”
We don’t assume, “Today will be the last day of my life.”
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