The Day I Was Hit By A Car

On the evening of January 23, 2016 my life was changed.

Dramatically. Drastically. At times, devastatingly.

But as all moments of pain are to some degree founded on the loss of something beloved, something cherished- sometimes even something comfortable- so did my pain of that night have its root in former beginnings. A life lived that made new realities painfully raw.

To understand why that night was so disruptively and dizzily disorienting, rather than beginning with the evening of January 23, 2016, I bring you to its morning, glimpsing into what I know now was the last few hours of the "normalcy" I had accommodated to.

The year and a half leading up to that morning was marked with celebratory milestones; engagement, graduation, career development, and matrimonially binding my whole self to the most incredible human I've ever known. I had eased into a comfort of sorts, the kind that can leave you breathlessly stagnant. Truthfully, I had never been so happy. Or blinded, I later learned.

That night, however, I awoke from an unbeknownst slumber.
On January 23, 2016 I was struck by a car while crossing the road on my walk home from work. As quickly as I hit the ground arose screaming, crying and sirens; my thoughts and life and entire self were abruptly interrupted in an instant. I accepted death. I truly believed I was going to die. Then there were onlookers and firemen, police officers and paramedics. Before they put me in that ambulance, I was on the road lying in fear and in pain, knowing that my life would never be the same. And it brought a fear on me like I have never felt before. A paralyzing pressure on my heart weighed my soul down to depths I'd not known of. Isn't it wild that in the time it takes to reach the end of a sidewalk crossing you can reach the end of yourself? That the life you'd led up to that road didn't cross with you? That the familiarity and safety of a walking signal can ensnare you in fear & broken assurances? And you are changed- involuntarily and unknowingly- but changed, nevertheless. I know now that in that moment, moreso than my knowing I was struck by a vehicle, was the revealing and clarity of my frailty. It is a strange thing to face your frailty- your humanness. More suitable is to say is that it is recklessly painful, uncomfortably unhinging to see the defences you have vigorously laboured to construct and barricade around yourself come down.

What followed was a series of tests and surgery and prognoses telling me I wouldn't be home for several months. Telling me I wouldn't walk for an unforeseeable amount of time. Telling me that the hospital was my new home. Telling me that my newly crafted marriage would have to be put on hold while my mangled body lay motionless on a hospital bed. And all I heard was fear at its loudest.

I will be truthfully raw. For all the songs of deliverance I belted in felt church pews, all the rich moments of devotion in His word, all the promises I brought to others in their moments of pain, I was suffocating in fear on that road, and later in that hospital room. In hindsight I saw that I did not have praises of faith on my lips as I lay there. Instead a crippling fear suffocated, stifled my heart.

Again, let me be clear. Praise was definitely not all that was pouring out of me many times throughout this process. I believe I will always remember the night my fears screamed so loudly that three nurses heard and sat by my bedside, concerned for my well being. I remember the feeling of expectation dismantled as doctors told me the bed rest didn't help, that my condition had worsened, that going home was still unforeseen. I remember vividly the day after the accident, when surgeons told me new X-rays carried with them new concerns.

When tragedy strikes it becomes painfully easy to ask, "Why me?". So easy it begins to roll off the tongue. I'm young. I'm newly married. I'm just starting life, not having had my fill of it yet. I'm [insert any self-focused stake on pity]. I declared them all.

But I was struck by stillness can be used to set us free. Three days following the accident, I recall hearing His voice, "I will confine you to this bed, that I will finally set you free." It was not until I was confined to a hospital bed for two months that I found my proclamation of faith in Jesus to that point to be circumstantial; I conditionally placed my trust in Christ. Yes, Jesus. I trust You when I am walking. Yes, Jesus. I trust in You when I have health. Yes, Jesus. I trust in You when my relationships are thriving and the finances are flowing and my life is going exactly as I have planned.

Slowly and enduringly these convictions and truths began to fall on me in that hospital room corner.

And I begin realize there is purpose. There is sanctification to be done in us. There is truth to be spoken. There is impossibility to be declared a lie and then overcome by the God who knows no limitations. To the ruler of the synagogue in Mark 5 whose daughter has just died, Jesus says, "Do not be afraid; only believe." In the immensity of the pain and uncertainty that surely would have been drawing the breath out of this man, Jesus says that fear has no place, but rather this should be a signal to grasp trust more deeply. And He does not declare this in void; Jesus then goes on to heal the daughter, defying every expectation and possibility, raising the girl to life.

You see, God is in the art of taking our expectations and then turning them in on themselves; of taking our small hopes and pushing their boundaries until they break and all that is left is the truth and glory and greatness of a God whose name is Love and Mercy and Hope. Why should our hope know limitations when we serve a God to whom impossibility is a lie? Boundlessly + hopefully expectant is our stance as children of God. What would our lives display if we saw devastation as the tapestry onto which God weaves together His audacious promises into the now moment. Deep pain yields deep trust in His promises. I have come to see that trust in Him does not mean trust in His promises + relational security, health, finances, etc. Trust in Him means trust in HIM. This is why, like the ruler of the synagogue, we can know suffering is not the greatest current arising toward us, but grace that is calling us deeper into His love. Let us not confuse pain with God's neglect. It took being hit by a car and bound to hospital bed, unable to even turn over by myself, to realize my brokenness went far beyond what an X-ray could detect.

You see, it was in the wreckage that I saw the face of God. Beyond the shards of glass and brokenness and confusion and pain was the light of a glorious splendour penetrating through the bleakness of that moment. I hadn't known it, but He was coming in a new way. Isn't that our greatest hope? That there is no impenetrability to our pain and suffering in the presence of the One that has conquered and danced victoriously over every ruthless, prowling, conniving lie spawned from the pit of hell. This truth I have come to stake my life on- that there is no greater lie in the face of God than fear.
To be satisfyingly desperate, fulfillingly broken- restoratively shattered- is to be open handedly reaching heavenward, receiving and trusting and crying out for the peace and love of God to penetrate and redefine our suffering.

Could it be that in devastation's wake there be a merciful Love triumphantly making beautiful the broken pieces of our self-sufficiency and pride?
He delights in embarking us on a route of glory that far exceeds our greatest hope.
Why not let Him lead us on the scenic route?

I did not know as I lay on that road that I needed to be shattered to be made whole. That in my pieces the Lord would orchestrate a revival. That the praise lifting from voices cracked with pain are symphonies to the ears of the One I now call Mercy. Grace. Love. And oh, how beautiful His pursuit of bringing down His promises from heaven to earth, searing them one by one to our hearts is. It's painful and uncomfortable very often. But no greater beauty, no brighter shining glory magnifies anywhere else. In trust would we say, "As for me, here I am, in your hand; do with me as seems good and proper to you" (Jeremiah 26:14). Only could we do this safely when the hands we commit ourselves into are those of mercy. Our God is one of refreshed mercies every morning, of passionately knowing the hairs on our head, of grace to the point of death on a Cross.

In our brokenness He meets us. Whispering songs of deliverance. Freedom and liberation. Victory will stake itself there. Not because of successful treatment or regaining of strength. We will be lifted up again because HIS GRACE is sufficient. HE careS for us even so to have split the seas for us to taste His redemption. He is our Rescuer. Would we sing His sweet goodness and Truth.

When I could not lift my broken arm to Him, I lifted my broken and contrite heart, for this is all He asks. Begging that He would break and burst my restraints. Let's ask Him to receive our brokenness for His good + sweet + holy Name.

Expectation in God arises when discernment of His capability and willingness to intervene falls on us anew.

How beautiful is the God whose sovereignty claims our sufferings, pains, our brokenness as the intricacies of a gracious glory unveiling?

Let us sing, "We want to see you. No matter the false securities need be pulled from beneath us. No matter the pain. No matter the cost."

Yes, on January 23, 2016 I was struck by a car. But it was not primarily a car that hit me that day; it was the grace and love and power of God that crashed over me, shattering not my bones but my disillusioned strongholds I barricaded my heart within. Perhaps it is in the breaking of disillusionment- in pieces- that we are made whole. Would we lay ourselves down on the road we have comfortably crossed, acknowledging our shattered brokenness with hand raised high and hearts bowed low in praise of the One who overwhelms the darkness.