Thursday, February 19, 2015

Gravel, God, and Gratitude; One Year Later

Today marks one year since the day my husband and his Ducati went down on Houston's 610/59 interchange. During the past year I thanked God for every angel who helped my family heal.  But one angel in particular stands out, and I have no idea whether or not she was real.

If my February 19, 2014, were a movie, it would open to a grainy graphite blur, muffled movements, the crackle of gravel under rubber soles.  From just outside my right ear would be a woman's voice. Loud. Strong. A firm, sturdy, Southern woman . Conviction booming with every syllable running like a rapid river with no punctuation.
"LORD hear me send Your angels to this soul usher them forth to carry his spirit hold this man up lay your hands upon him dear Jesus HEEEEALL this man Lord hear me send Your angels now to his side Jesus we pray...."
Like waking from a dream in a foreign church trying to pray in a manner unfamiliar to my own but knowing that the spirits and Gods are all of one universal understanding in this precise moment.  Gasoline, tar, reinforced steel blends as I am squinting into focus. My husband's helmeted head under my hands so careful not to move him an inch and to keep him stable.  He is as motionless as I am breathless as this woman continues overhead, eclipsing the morning sun, the only movement on a dead stopped highway. Where the hell is the ambulance!?
"Heal this man Jesus do not take him home send your angels to his side Lord I pray that you are here with us today..."
Life or death moments move so painfully slow in a dreamlike state where the words I scream don't make a sound.
"Tell her...." my husband utters and I am electric with surprise!  He is conscious! He is alive under all that leather road gear! I lean closer to hear him because his breath is strained, uneasy. "Tell her to shut up........  I can't think."
I turn to ask her to be quiet and though I still hear her voice tapering off, she is gone. As if she were never there. The noise of her voice replaced by approaching sirens and I am abruptly aware of bystanders, motorcycle debris in the road, a rush of activity closing in, forcing me out. Scanning the crowd, I look for the praying woman over this bridge of cars jammed to a halt in jagged angles to avoid crashing themselves.  I've lost her without being able to thank her.

As weeks of recovery went by and my husband began to remember his own February 19, 2014, movie, the first thing he recalled was the endless spinning of his body as it careened down the highway. The second memory was hearing the praying woman.  A memory always accompanied by a regretful cringe of speaking to someone so harshly.  Especially someone who wanted only to help.  But in that moment of sudden consciousness,  he had forgotten how to breathe.  Through the chaos and pain the brightest light was this woman praying to her God on my husband's behalf.

Now, one year later, as we look back on that day we don't remember the hospital, the injuries, the lack of justice.  We simply rejoice in the many miracles that started with one woman's fearless voice to pray to God for strangers on the road before her.  A simple act of kindness that changed my life forever.



  1. Oh my, what a beautiful and heart wrenching post! I am crying here...your writing is beautiful. You really could be an author. So thankful God sent this women at such a time as this.