Called to shine

Once upon a time there was a man named Dave. He was a good man. He was married to a woman named Ann. Like her husband, she was also good. Together, they raised two beautiful girls. They were the kind of couple that put family first (after only God). And so their girls grew up secure in the knowledge that they were loved, that God was good, and that home was a nice place to be.

Ann and Dave owned a lovely little trailer in a beautiful place called Muskoka. When they weren’t able to use their trailer themselves, they decided to make it available to other families. To spread the joy around a bit, so to speak.

One of those families had three little children and one income. But the dad worked hard at his job and the mom worked hard at home and the kids did what kids do, so being able to take a vacation together at Ann and Dave’s trailer felt like a wonderful gift. For it was a place where the kids could safely run free. And the days would be filled with picking wildflowers, building sand castles, catching frogs, and reading good books. In the evenings there would be campfires and star gazing, puzzles and games, singing songs and sharing hugs.

Ann always made sure the little family felt pampered: she would scrub the trailer before they came and leave it well stocked with an assortment of magazines for the adults to read and games for the children to play, lovely notes and baskets of goodies on the kitchen table to welcome them.

The first year the little family went there, their oldest daughter broke a lamp that had been a wedding gift to Ann and Dave. The family felt terribly. But Ann and Dave were gracious and kind. And they let the family go back to their trailer again the next summer. And the next. And the next after that. And every fall, they invited the little family to use the trailer in order to experience the beauty that is Muskoka in the autumn.

And so as the children grew, they grew with memories of happy, family times spent relaxing in God’s beautiful creation. And they grew with the knowledge that those memories were possible because kind strangers had willingly shared out of the abundance that God had given them. Eventually, the little family was able to buy their own trailer in Muskoka.

By then, Ann and the mom had long since become friends. They only met face-to-face on two occasions. But as the years passed, they emailed and spoke occasionally on the telephone, and at Christmas they exchanged cards. They prayed for each other’s families. And they rejoiced at the news of all the good things that happened in one another’s lives.

But then one day, Ann sent a different sort of email. She and Dave had been on vacation far away with one of their now-grown daughters and her two children. They had had a wonderful time. But on the night before they were to return home, Dave suddenly took sick. He got so sick, Ann took him to the hospital.

“Within a short time at the hospital, the doctor called me in and said Dave had suffered a massive heart attack and was ‘gone,’” Ann wrote. “The doctor told me Dave didn’t suffer and was in no discomfort.” There were hundreds of people at the visitation, and hundreds more at the funeral. “A wonderful tribute to Dave,” Ann said.

***

When I read that email (for I was that “mom” and mine was the “little family”) I admit I cried: for Ann, for her two daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren. They will miss Dave dearly. Life will be very different for all of them without him.

And then it struck me: I was mourning for a man I’ve never met. But through choosing to be kind to a family he’d never met – over and over again – Dave had a significant influence on our lives. So I’ll always be grateful for his life. He used what influence he had to let his life shine.

“God has called us to shine … Let no one say that he cannot shine because he has not so much influence as some others may have. What God wants you to do is to use the influence you have.”   – Dwight L. Moody (1837 – 1899)

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.