Last spring I took a class called Perspectives. The last class session was on April 12. On my way to class that night, I followed my normal routine -- I left home early enough to go by Joe Beans and get some coffee, and then drove to church for the class.
All normal routine, except for the part where I never actually made it.
I was turning left at a regular green light, no arrow. There was a row of cars in the opposite left turn lane. I didn't see the truck in time.
There are a few seconds of time that are a complete blank to me, as if I skipped them altogether.
Then there was noxious smoke, and pain in my chest, and fire engines. A frantic search for my glasses and cell phone. A kind person who brought me an umbrella, and EMTs trying to convince me to go to the hospital. The woman who was driving the truck. My best friend arriving. Calling someone from school to get a sub for the next day. When I think back, I remember it all in a whirl of motion and color, each moment bleeding into the next.
It has been three hundred and sixty-five days since then. Three-hundred and sixty-five nights since I lay in a bed in the Nelson's spare bedroom awake and wondering what on Earth I was going to do. Lying there praying and hoping and crying and feeling so, so alone. Three hundred and sixty five terrifying, wonderful, miraculous days.
Here's to perspective.