As we were checking everything off the diaper bag checklist (D.B.C.), I rattled a few lyrics off to Christy for her feedback. Songwriting is a big hobby of mine and these were from a new song I’m working on, tentatively titled The Prodigal Prodigal. I normally wouldn’t publicly share much about my songs, but feel it relevant to yesterdays events. Bare with me.
Whether you’re a believer or not, you probably know the story of the Prodigal Son. If you don’t, it’s a good’n. Perhaps the most affectingly popular of Jesus’ many parables, I wanted to examine - in song form - a (fictional?) follow up to this tale of grace that I feel is personal for all believers (whether they know it or not). In the song, the restored prodigal son, like one still suffering from drug/sin addiction, leaves his father's house and squanders his second chance and second inheritance on prostitutes; pawns his father’s purple robe and signet ring for a fix and finds himself in a hot mess. Like every honest ragamuffin on this sojourn, he needs yet more grace and healing and finds his redemption like a car wreck, racing like hell for home again, trying to outrun a volcanic eruption and the hounds of hell itself. A funny twist of irony comes as we find the very alarms threatening his life are in fact agents of grace in the guise of dangers to lead him back to his home and ever loving father. The road behind is burned up in the lava flow that he’s trying to outrun. He’s tried every road there is, but the only road left is the road running ‘home’. Like a sheep scared stupid, the hound of hell at his heels turns out not to be the big bad wolf, but his guide, the sheepdog. The nips of fire and lava at his tail are the honest wounds of a friend, sending him running back to the Shepherd’s arms and his source of life and safety.
In the lyric I shared with Christy yesterday morning, I likened this to driving down a hill in the ice and snow. Growing up in northern Idaho, Montana and Alaska, Christy knows what to do in this situation better than most. If you hit the brakes, you’re gonna slide out of control. Perhaps the only thing you can do is downshift and say a prayer that you won’t slide into traffic at the bottom of the hill. I shared my lyrical analogy with her:
“It’s a slippery slope,
if you press the brakes
on your way down,
you’re gonna skid.
if you try to slow
you’re gonna wish
you never did...”
“For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” - Matthew 16:25
With only two weeks left in this house we’ve called home since September, I chose to stay back to clean and pack while Christy and Josiah began their two-hour journey to Galway, the nearest pediatric dentist in Ireland. I had a not-so-funny feeling, so tucked Josiah into his rear-facing car seat w/ isofix base extra snug and prayed for their journey while keeping my phone on me. No cleaning or packing happened. Half an hour later, while finishing my own tuna sandwich, Christy called to say her and Josiah had been in a car accident. She was in shock. They were both Okay. No one else was involved. Freak accident. Somewhere in there was also a tuna sandwich. Somehow, on dry roads and a straight stretch going under the speed limit, the car started fish-tailing out of control. Somehow (miraculously?) the front two wheels had landed perpendicular to the road, across a deep ditch while the back wheels stayed balanced on the road-side of the ditch (see attached picture). Several spectators said you couldn’t have replicated that ‘landing’ if you tried a million times. There were no skid marks. Like my song lyrics, she didn’t slam on the brakes. Sean’s the name of the man who gave her and Josiah a lift back to Westport. He also comforted her and sat with Josiah to make sure he was okay. He was a driving instructor for thirty-five years and said she did just the right thing by not doing slamming on the brakes. How she didn’t roll, flip or slide into the deep mote-like ditch is a complete mystery. Any faster and she’d have rolled, any slower and she’d have taken a nosedive several feet below. It’s as if the car was physically lifted and set down the way it landed.
I scrambled to make a few calls. With no friends or family nearby I called our landlord, who put me in touch with a mechanic who tows cars and our friend Tomas in Dublin to ask for prayer. My neighbor let me borrow her car to go get Christy and J and take them to the A&E (ER). Josiah didn’t even cry, the jolt just woke him from his nap. He remained his happy self with no sign of discomfort. Christy got some whiplash and is feeling quite sore in her back and abdomen, but otherwise seems fine (appreciate prayers for her full recovery). The A&E waiting area was full of 50 sick people who are a greater risk to Josiah than anything he may have experienced in the accident. Rather than hang out with them in an airtight space with nowhere to sit for six hours till we were seen (and probably just to be told to take some advil), we decided to leave and return later if anything seemed fishy.
The mechanic called back. He’d been to see the car, said you’d have to airlift it out of there and recommended selling it for scrap for 60 euros. He said it wasn’t worth it. Let it melt into the bog. Josiah was hungry. While we still had access to our neighbor’s car, we drove to the nearest Tesco (grocery store) with attached cafe to feed Josiah and have a rest. Christy was still in a bit of shock and needed a latte. The report from the mechanic actually set her laughing hysterically. Anyone who knows Christy well shouldn’t be surprised at this. While a wrecked car with no coverage or money in the bank is no fun, it’s nothing compared with two precious lives. We are beyond thankful Josiah and Christy are okay. I got some shopping done while C started feeding J his blended spaghetti bolognese and nursed her coffee. Who knows when we’d be able to drive to the store again? What does it matter that we’re living in the middle of nowhere, isolated without a car to move house and get Josiah to appointments as long as we’re alive?
Returning with groceries, I give C a break and take over Josiah’s feeding. Looking up, an elderly man is waving and smiling. AT us. He has few hairs left, each going it’s own way. His huge smile betrays crooked, discolored teeth with several missing. It may be the third best smile I’ve ever seen (behind Christy and Josiah’s, respectively). I wave back and turn Josiah’s attention to him as he gives us the thumbs up. “See the nice man, Josiah?” I lift one of his messy spaghetti hands in a waving gesture back to him. He stands up and walks over to us. All he says are these five words: “Enjoy it while you can!” I thank him and say I will, his joyful smile and kind words carrying a solemn weight as though he were a prophet of God. I grin knowingly as the smiley man walks away. They couldn’t have been more timely in light that my wife and son had just narrowly escaped bad injury or worse. What was it about his voice - so scratchy, so much effort to get those few important words out? Enjoy it while you can.
Josiah cried when he was born at 23 weeks. It really was a miracle. This impossibly small, red, one pound baby let out a little cry. A moment later, a breathing tube was hurried down his throat and his next frail cries weren’t heard until the 104th day of his life, the first full day without a ventilation tube down his throat. If he’d been able to speak, he would’ve sounded something like that man. Being ventilated can make one rather hoarse, to say the least. With their big, crooked, yellow, life-affirming smiles they both exhort us to enjoy it while we can.
Of all those in that cafe yesterday, Josiah and Mr. Smiley Man were the only two that took any interest in those around them and seemed to be the only two who tried to interact with and encourage the strangers they were surrounded by. The healthy, shiny, perfect teenagers nearby were clustered eight to a three person table. For such a large group, it was sad that for the most part they looked down at their smart phones. My son will probably never look like them. He may be developmentally delayed with disabilities from extreme prematurity all his life, but one thing that is not disabled is his joy and ability to carry that joy and hope to hundreds (if not thousands) of people. With no words, he shouts that life and love are both miracles and to enjoy them while we can.
“...but God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.” 1 Cor. 1:27
It all felt a bit like a dream, to be honest. Over the years we’ve had a few run-ins with those who we later wondered whether or not they were angels. Ask us sometime. None of whom have had smooth complexions, figures, ruddy arms or perfect teeth. In fact, they’ve all been elderly and frail. Perhaps they were just kind old people who’ve learned a thing or two about the secret of Life. If not angelic messengers sent to us in times of need, they were messengers no less. “Enjoy it while you can,” they say.
We gathered up our things and decided to drive our neighbor’s car to the scene of the crash to clean out our car and say our goodbyes before the grim car-reaper came to collect his prize. A couple miles down the same road on our way home, a huge truck had just gone into the ditch and a crew was trying to get it out (what is it about this road?). C suggested we ask them to look at our car. Meet Sean #2. If you recall, Sean #1 was the driving instructor who stopped to help Christy earlier and brought her and J back to town. We were told that Sean #2 was the man in charge. Turns out he’s just a heck of a nice guy with towing gear who ‘just so happened’ to be in the right place at the right time. We give him our number, he says he’ll look at the car when he’s done and call us. By this time, Josiah’s fussing, hungry and tired of sitting in a car seat for most of the day. Can't blame him - at least he doesn't know he was in a car wreck. We were nearing home when Sean #2 called us. Apparently, he and a few guys had got our car out in mostly one piece and were driving it back to Westport. Say what?! Dumbfounded, we turned around.
We meet Sean #2 at his shop, who had just pulled up in our car. A mechanic had given it a once over and decided it was okay enough to drive slowly back to town. Sean hurriedly pressure-washed the bog from our front fender and radiator as though he was embarrassed to have not done so before we’d arrived. Honestly, it was like he was ashamed he hadn’t gift wrapped it for us. Another angel, perhaps. Expecting an insurmountable bill, we asked him how we could repay him. “Pray for me!” he said... Enjoy it while you can. We tell him if we weren’t praying people before our son was born, we have certainly become so since and shared a bit of Josiah’s story with him before shaking hands and parting ways. We will remember to pray for Sean #2. And Sean #1 for that matter. As I write this, I wonder what name 'Sean' means. I bet it means grace or something. Honestly! Let's try Google...yep, even better - Sean means God is gracious; gift from God.
We inched our way home in two cars with the hazards on and made it safely for a late dinner and bedtime routine. No tuna fish. Had a few group hugs, tears and prayers of thanksgiving, even for traumatic and untimely events like this that serve as a means of grace: telling us not take the gifts of life and our loved ones for granted. We still don’t know what we’re gonna do with our car for our last two months in Ireland, but are quite sure we’ll be looked after (however that looks) and most importantly, try to enjoy it while we can.
