In the mood for a story?

My kids can testify: I love to tell stories. Not the gloriously imaginative ‘once-upon-a-time’ stories some parents concoct to the delight of their offspring. I’m afraid my imagination isn’t up to that task. (Oh, I tried when they were small. But my make-believe stories were pretty lame and the kids and I both knew it. So we read a lot of books together, and they learned to go to their dad for their desired dose of one-of-a-kind ‘happily-ever-after’ tales.)

When pressed, I’d tell them non-fiction stories: stories I’d read in newspapers or books, or stories of the lives of people I’d had the privilege of meeting or interviewing.

But recently, I reflected on a story I don’t remember ever sharing with my kids.

And that’s a wrong I need to right. Because it’s a wonderful story. It’s true. It happened to me. And I consider it one of a handful of “miracles” that have occurred at timely junctures in my life, which convince me of God’s great love and care.

The year was 1985. I was 24, working at a job I loved at a Toronto television station. My shift started early – at 7 a.m. each day – and on this particular January morning, I was running a little bit late. But it was one of those beautiful, sunshiny, blue-sky winter days and so I was enjoying the drive.

Recently engaged, the ring on my left hand was still enough of a novelty that I held the steering wheel “just so” in the 10 o’clock / 2 o’clock position, so I could see the diamond send off sparks. Cruising north along the Don Valley Parkway in my beloved little Mazda GLC – my favourite Billy Joel cassette blaring – I sang along; happy to be in love. Happy to be alive.

Traffic was heavy but moving, not a hint in the air of what was about to happen.

Driving in the centre lane, the car immediately in front of me suddenly spun out. I didn’t even have time to think about my reaction. I just reacted, turning the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid that car. I didn’t hit it – or any other car for that matter – but I remember a sick, sinking feeling as my own little gold car spun out of control.

I don’t remember the impact when my car slammed into a light standard on the far right side of the parkway. I don’t remember the crunch of metal or the breaking of glass. I don’t remember the shrieking of other cars around me, as the light standard came crashing down over my car and onto the parkway, effectively trapping me in my car and closing the road for hours. I don’t remember the sirens of the ambulance or fire crew arriving to cut me out.

I do remember waking up, and the first thing I saw as I opened my eyes was my own reflection in the twisted rear view mirror. I remember mascara running in black rivulets down my cheeks. I remember wishing I’d worn waterproof mascara. I remember telling the firefighter not to “hurt” my now totalled car – when he made a move to free me from my seatbelt with a pair of scissors. I remember being loaded into the ambulance. I remember the frightened faces of loved ones when they arrived at the hospital. That’s about all I remember.

My injuries from that traffic accident kept me off work for three months. It was spring when I returned to my job, still sporting a walking cast.

I’d only been back at work a few days, when the receptionist called to tell me I had a visitor in the lobby. I walked out to see a complete stranger waiting for me. He greeted me with warm words and a warmer smile, then, with a look of mild shock and confusion exclaimed, “You don’t remember me, do you?!”

I was convinced I’d never seen the man before in my life.

“I’ve been calling the station every week to find out how you were,” he said. ”I was with you – at your accident,” he added. “I was the first one to get to you. My car was right behind yours. I knelt beside your window and held your hand until the fire crews arrived,” he added.

“And I stayed with you and prayed with you while they cut you out of the car.”

In all the years since then, I’ve never – not once – had so much as a moment’s recollection of any of that happening. But it comforts me immensely to know that when I was totally helpless, God saw to it that I was not alone.