introspection
I have to admit, I'm haunted by the car accident that killed my stepdaughters' mother and little sister. I keep hearing the horrific sound of crushing glass and metal in my head, even though I wasn’t there that awful night.
I imagine myself in the driver’s seat and wonder what she saw and felt in those final moments. The sheer unfairness of the whole thing bothers me. By what forces in the universe is one person allowed to live when another must die? Is every second I’m still here, alive and breathing, a moment stolen from her? Surely she would have wanted to live, to watch her two little ones and her older daughters marry and have children of their own. She would have wanted to be at their weddings, graduations, and the births of their children. Why were those opportunities taken from her, for no apparent reason? I don’t feel worthy of such grand entitlements, especially when they were rightfully hers.
It’s a sobering thought that a person can be driving home one evening with her child strapped in her car seat, and in a flash, everything ends. Such a harsh reality makes me consider how I'm spending my time. Am I doing enough that makes a difference? Am I using my time wisely? If my life ended today, what things have I left unsaid or undone? Did I owe someone a heartfelt apology? Did every one of my kids know that I loved them completely? Would people look back on my life and proclaim that I was “good?”
Two young mothers in my very extended family (both in their early thirties), are having double mastectomies in the next few days. One has lymph node involvement and one doesn’t. They are both now facing cancer, the wretched beast that claimed my mother’s life. So I ponder. Why? Why them? Of course, they are both surrounded with love and family support and each one is now acutely aware of the beautiful blessings in her life. Is this what death—or its looming presence—is supposed to teach us? To draw closer to each other? To be appreciative? Why is it that the more delicate, fragile, and temporary something seems, the more precious it becomes?
Today I am resolved to have more gratitude.
I imagine myself in the driver’s seat and wonder what she saw and felt in those final moments. The sheer unfairness of the whole thing bothers me. By what forces in the universe is one person allowed to live when another must die? Is every second I’m still here, alive and breathing, a moment stolen from her? Surely she would have wanted to live, to watch her two little ones and her older daughters marry and have children of their own. She would have wanted to be at their weddings, graduations, and the births of their children. Why were those opportunities taken from her, for no apparent reason? I don’t feel worthy of such grand entitlements, especially when they were rightfully hers.
It’s a sobering thought that a person can be driving home one evening with her child strapped in her car seat, and in a flash, everything ends. Such a harsh reality makes me consider how I'm spending my time. Am I doing enough that makes a difference? Am I using my time wisely? If my life ended today, what things have I left unsaid or undone? Did I owe someone a heartfelt apology? Did every one of my kids know that I loved them completely? Would people look back on my life and proclaim that I was “good?”
Two young mothers in my very extended family (both in their early thirties), are having double mastectomies in the next few days. One has lymph node involvement and one doesn’t. They are both now facing cancer, the wretched beast that claimed my mother’s life. So I ponder. Why? Why them? Of course, they are both surrounded with love and family support and each one is now acutely aware of the beautiful blessings in her life. Is this what death—or its looming presence—is supposed to teach us? To draw closer to each other? To be appreciative? Why is it that the more delicate, fragile, and temporary something seems, the more precious it becomes?
Today I am resolved to have more gratitude.
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