We all heard it.  Without a warning screech of tires, a deafening crash sounded just outside, another to follow.
My family rushed outside from our evening of cozy TV watching, sock footed, into a cold winter night, blurry with smoke.  Twenty feet from our front door an SUV faced the wrong way in our street, the corner streetlight lay along the sidewalk, broken glass scattered into the street.
Thick smoke, acrid and abundant, billowed from a fire under the car.  It was hard to see (what with no streetlight and all), but we knew we had to take action.  It became clear what had happened: the driver didn’t make the curve that bends slightly to the left right in front of the house, slammed into the corner streetlight (crash one), the force of which swung the vehicle around 180 degrees, completely uprooting the huge metal streetlight and sending it toppling to the sidewalk (crash two).
My husband made his way inside to call 911 while I rushed to the driver side of the vehicle. As I approached I heard the loud, semi-coherent moaning and swearing of it’s only occupant.  “Can you move?” I asked, grateful the driver was conscious.  The woman behind the wheel said she could, so I urged her to get out immediately, describing in the most animated terms that there was a fire blazing away under her.
I was taken aback by her response: “No, there’s not.”
I replied that there was indeed a fire, I could see it, pointing out the smoke billowing from under the ruined front of her vehicle.  Continuing her protests, the driver reluctantly climbed out of the SUV, stumbling around a little, clearly disoriented.
While a quick-thinking neighbor employed a fire extinguisher to snuff the fire, the ruined vehicle continued to leak fuel onto the street.
The driver’s agitation increased as we waited for the emergency responders.  “Don’t call the police,” the woman insisted, “I don’t need help. I’m going home now.”
I watched in astonishment as she climbed back into her car, intent on getting on with her evening.  Refusing to accept to the level of ruin, and wanting to move on with life, she decided to simply drive away in the destroyed vehicle she had been operating under the influence of what appeared to be a variety of substances.
A passer-by gently but firmly insisted that the driver stop trying to put the key in the ignition for fear a spark would reignite the fuel still draining under the car.
“I don’t need any help.”  “I’m not trying to drive away, not trying to start the car, there’s no fuel all over the street, there’s no broken glass, it’s all fine.”  “Everyone leave me alone.”
Belligerent and profane, she rebuffed any offer of help, water, blanket, comfort.  She had it all covered herself, thank you very much, and “none of this was real.”  Deny, deny, deny.
We stayed outside, trying to help, keeping watch to prevent her from reentering the car, until we heard sirens and saw the flashing lights approaching our usually quiet neighborhood.
Heading back into our warm house, we were all shaken by this, my family and I, and if nothing else it reiterated to my young adult kids to never drive under the influence of anything.  Ever.
I still think about this woman who didn’t quite make the turn in front of our house that cold night.  She was truly lucky to be alive, not a visible scratch on her.  She was unwillingly taken away by ambulance that night, and was, most likely, in police custody after being released from the hospital.
But I wonder how she got there.  What led her to the place of ruin, the place of denying she needed help, insisting that it was all fine, and trying to restart a car with no front end?  As we watched this all play out mere yards from our front door, I couldn’t help but wonder.  And I wonder still.
Don’t I deny that I need help, that I am struggling, misguidedly trying to figure out everything on my own?  Don’t I try to shove my key into the ignition, to restart a broken situation on my own, risking the inevitable explosion if spark meets spilled fuel?   Deny, deny, deny.
But here’s the reality of the situation. I do crash.  I make a mess of things that I can’t fix.  And I’d venture to guess that you do, too.
How often our lives crash.  A curve sneaks up on us that we don’t quite make, and we come to a screeching, crashing stop. We think we can just keep going without help, pushing away those who are trying to offer support and bless us.  We put all we have into to getting the wreckage moving again, having arrived at that place of destruction under the influence of all the wrong voices.
How, then, do we come back from a crashing ruin in our lives, whether of our own making or the resulting someone else’s choices?
  1. Stop denying there’s a problem.  Look for the place you veered of course, acknowledge where you’ve missed the turn, and be willing to take some steps to repair the situation.
  1. Stop insisting you don’t need anyone’s support.  Then listen to those around you who are offering that blanket, water, fire extinguisher, or advice to not climb back into the fuel-leaking wreckage of your life.
  1. Stop thinking you can fix the situation without Expert Help.  Hold up this brokenness before God, who loves you, and let Him do more than just some body shop repair on your life, but let him replace the engine, fuel pump, and transmission.  Our lives don’t just need to look like they’ve been repaired after a crash, we need them to work again.  What better way than a complete rebuild on the inside?
When we refuse to see our devastation, God can’t begin our restoration.  Let Him take the wreckage and make it new.
Christian Women's Blog, Family, Living Faith

1 thought on “Crash

  1. What a great visual of our own lives, I crash all the time and so many occasions try and start the ignition myself. Really spoke to me this Saturday morning . Well written Kathleen ?

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