One of my friends died on Friday night. She was a mom of 4 kids — 3 boys and a girl, just like me. Her name was Michelle. Her daughter, Julia, was one of Caleb’s best friends at school. She was killed too. She was only 8. Our friends were teachers at the American school in Oman, home on summer vacation, saying their last goodbyes before flying back for another wonderful year. Their older sons, 14 and 12, are friends with Calvin, the husband taught computer classes to my kids, we went to Atlantis with them, went camping with them, our kids were in Awana together and Josh served with them as Awana leaders.
They were headed home from a movie on Friday evening, 9pm. Grandma, mom, daughter and son. They were hit head-on by a drunk driver who couldn’t manage to stay on his side of the road. A 21 year old who walked away with scratches, smelling of alcohol and driving with an open container. My friend and her mother-in-law died on impact, as the car burst into flames. Julia died on the way to the hospital and 5 year old Jason was pulled out of the burning car and is in critical condition at the hospital. In an instant our friend Mike lost his mother, his wife, and his daughter. I feel sick.
I never cry, but I have cried plenty over this. Less for me and more for all of my friends in Oman who will have to face this empty hole in their lives day after day. And for my friend Mike and those three beautiful boys who have lost so much. My mind goes to that ugly, dark place and wonders, “Why not me? What can I do to control my life so this doesn’t happen to me?” The answer of course is, “absolutely nothing.”
So today I don’t care that our shipment hasn’t arrived, or if it ever arrives. The kids can fight and pester me and I’ll be glad they’re here to be frustrated at. When Camille is extra needy tonight I’ll think of Mike and know he wishes he could lie down next to his daughter and tuck her in bed and I’ll gladly stay 5 more minutes and then 5 more minutes after that.
And then, in a few weeks, I’ll forget how much I have to be thankful for and I’ll find things to complain about. I always do. Life doesn’t seem so short or fragile until it is. And then I better hope I made the most of the time I had. I’m not very good at that part, but I’m immersed in it today. If I disappeared in a flash tomorrow, have I given the boys enough? What would they do? How would they turn out?
So I’m sad today. Putting on Mike’s shoes and walking around in them. Glad I can take them off at the end of the day and not be trapped in a nightmare that begins with a knock on the door from the Highway Patrol and very aware of the fact that it could easily be us.