...yet the Cross, it stayed still

My sister is never far from my thoughts. She is having a difficult time letting go of the accident. A trauma, alive and breathing, in every cell. What must it be like to replay the scene over and over again?

She is driving in the middle of the night, with her son by her side on a dark, Florida highway. The night still, barely a moon. Suddenly headlights from the other side approach in the distance. And what would barely be a recognition becomes lethal. The other car jumps the median and flies airborne, steel hurtling toward my sister's car. She has a second, if that, to glance over and see her son's face. And know that she isn't ready to go yet. She has more to do here. Yet the sight of his face is all she needs. Then the crash, louder than she could have ever imagined, a flash of light and darkness. Her son pulling her out of the car, disengaging her from the airbag that has saved her life. She is alive, because all she feels is pain.

Now almost two weeks later she is still in pain, but blessedly alive and without "significant" injury. The damage to her psyche is yet to be determined. How to once again get behind the wheel of a car and drive. Unimaginable. After all, how likely is it that a lone car on the road, across the median, would learn to fly and smash into her. It happened...

There is one thing that stays with her, all the time. Her Cross, which she kept lying loosely amongst some sea shells on her dashboard, appears to hold the light. While everything flew and ricocheted about the car, as if in a funnel cloud - the shells scattered ...yet the Cross, it stayed still. On the dash. Withstanding the impact of the other car at 60mph. A mystery? Perhaps not...

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