like a white curtain dropped without mercy,
mingles with smoke,
and angels lifting vacationers
from cars, now charred and twisted.
The future hangs shrouded
in the thick, woolly air . . .
I lay under a blanket dazed and damaged.
God's gaze penetrates the dense whiteness.
He remembers me with grace.
Five hours from home, we helplessly stared into the eerie whiteness on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as we barely tapped what must have been a car ahead of us. If this is all we hit, we'll be okay, I thought. I turned around to check on five-year-old Elisabeth. At that moment, a crushing impact from behind convulsed us back and forth like rag dolls. Elisabeth's legs flew up. My husband clutched his sides in agony.
Oblivious to the fire, explosions, screams, and scraping metal piercing the murky mist around us, I heard only one message beat like a drum in my mind: "We have to get out of the car, out of the car, out . . ."
Somehow, in the ensuing chaos of the twenty-plus vehicle pile-up, helicopters life-flighted the four of us to three different hospitals. Thankfully, the girls were discharged with minimal injuries. With a broken neck and shattered vertebra, I faced two major surgeries. Barry's life became a flickering candle in the dark of a coma.
Eleven years have passed since that fateful day. Eleven years since those daunting days of whispered what-ifs, victories and set-backs, prayers and tears. Today, we remember eleven years of God's daily faithfulness along with the wonderful love and care of family, friends, and even people we didn't know.
God remembered us with grace . . . a grace that is sufficient on the darkest of days.
(Taken from Chapter Two of my forthcoming book, Penned Without Ink: Trusting God to Write Your Story.)