June 13, 1999 - The Day I Didn't Die

I'm not sure, maybe everyone has a story about "the time they almost died". I  guess it's possible that if every person has one, it makes everyone else's not-dying seem like not such a big deal. Because there are other things to get emotional about. You know, like people actually dying. The farther removed I get from my particular story, the less often I think about it, but there's one thing that I am 100% certain about - June 13, 1999 was a big deal.

I was thirteen, and I was away from home for the longest stretch I had ever been. I had a junior staff position for a couple of weeks at a little camp near Peoria, Illinois. I was fairly middle-of-the-pack socially. I was perplexed by one half of the other girls, the early bloomers who wore sexy pajamas and looked stunning always. I myself was just figuring out mascara, and I was hoping there would be just one boy who noticed that my personality was bigger than my dental gear. I was somewhat comforted by the other half of the girl-population. The ones who rocked culottes and took moral issue with the concept of deodorant (before that was earthy and admirable or whatever). I was probably spiritually middle-of-the-pack, as well. I was sometimes genuine, sometimes not. I wasn't in the throes of adolescent rebellion, but fell short more often than not when it came to WWJD (very big in 1999, if you recall :).

June 13, 1999 was a  beautiful Sunday. All of the camp staff was headed to church, and I hopped in a car with two other Jennifer's and an Alex. We started down the eternal gravel road that led through the Illinois farmland and out of the camp. I tried to fasten my seatbelt, which was only a lap belt with no shoulder harness. I realized that the actual buckle part was tucked far into the seat, and I couldn't get it out. I felt around, but after a minute, I decided to skip the seatbelt, just this once. We drove on, laughing and chatting about inconsequential things that I don't remember in the slightest. What I remember was a Voice. It wasn't audible, but I'm not going to play it down and say it was a 'strong thought' or even my conscience. I'm a firstborn, and I'm well acquainted with conscience and 'strong thoughts' about how the world will end if I jaywalk. This was different, and it started soft, saying, "You need to buckle your seatbelt."  I fished around in the seat again, halfheartedly. Nope. No buckle. Back to conversation. Maybe a minute later, it was back. "YOU NEED TO BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT." It's possible that I got a little sassy with the Voice at this point. There was no buckle, I was not going to make a scene about it, the end. We continued driving and everything was fine, but after another minute or so, it was back. How something that isn't actually audible can be loud, I don't know, but it was LOUD, "YOU NEED TO BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT." I happened to see, across the whole seat and over by Alex was the buckle for a person sitting in the middle. "No way," I thought. "That's weird and I'm not doing it. I'm just not." Silence. The Voice had gotten my attention, though, and I couldn't shake the sense this was something worth listening to. I'm sure you already know that I stretched that seatbelt clear across the seat and buckled it over by Alex. We exchanged a look, I assume his look meant, "Hey weirdo. From now on, you have to hang out with the kids who think drums are the devil's instrument." Mine said, "Just, whatever, Alex." Or, "Talk to the hand!" Probably the latter. It was 1999.

I won't condescend. You know there's an accident in this story. We were making the final turn off a main highway onto the street the church was on. The driver gasped, "It's going to hit us!" Somehow I never even saw "it". I looked out my window, then turned forward, which was a mercy because a big van hit my side of the car, fast and hard. The sound of the impact was something I'll never forget. It overpowered everything - the metal crunching in and twisting around my ankles, the shower of glass that rained in on us, the feeling of the car flying through the air, what it must have felt like to land - I don't remember any of it other than that horrible sound. When we landed, we were far from the road, far from anyone, and I was the only one conscious. Alex came to in a few seconds, but those moments felt alone and very confusing. First, I noticed the blood. The driver was hunched in an odd, unnatural position, blood pooling in a large fold in her shirt. I had blood across the front of my clothes - was I hurt? I couldn't see my legs, the door was crushed in around them. I couldn't feel anything. Second, I looked back to see what hit us. There were people running from the van and I watched flames burst from it. Reality and panic caught up with me. I had figured out that my legs were completely trapped and I knew I couldn't get out if we caught on fire. But in those last few moments of being 'alone', I had peace that replaced the panic. A peace that didn't so much make sense, it just was.

It was the stuff that traumatic memories are made of. Swarms of rescue workers (amazing ones) descended on the accident site. They covered me with a sheet and began cutting the top off the car with the jaws of life. They cut us three girls out of the car, one by one. The driver was airlifted, she was hurt so badly I could cry thinking about it today. I remember her convulsing, the paramedics saying her body was shutting down. I have no idea how long it took them to get me out, but I remember the crowd of what seemed like at least 100 gawkers behind the yellow tape, just doing that obnoxious gawking thing. I remember being in the ambulance and being so distressed that they cut my new sandals off my feet. I ran through what I grasped of the story for the third, thirtieth, three hundredth time, I don't even know. They asked what the driver's name was. "Jen," I answered. They asked who the other girl in the front was. "Jennifer," I replied. They paused and asked, "So... what's your name?" Even at thirteen, I knew where they were going with this. "Jenni. It really is Jenni." They exchanged knowing "she-must-have-a-head-injury" glances and proceeded to dig glass out of my scalp.

We talked about my seatbelt situation, I sheepishly told the paramedic-man about how I buckled it across the seat. He was quiet for a minute and then quietly discussed with the other paramedic-men. He said it was a miracle, that there was no better way that I could have been buckled in for the way we were hit. No seatbelt would have been very bad. The correct seatbelt buckle would have held me in place to be smashed when the van hit us. In the days weeks, months, even years following, more and more "miracles" became obvious to us. Somehow landing inches short of a concrete pole - miracle. The two other Jen's pulling out of comas, recovering from brain injuries, surviving through that first night when the odds were not good, working through what had to be gruesome therapy - miracle. My seatbelt "situation" - I consider that my miracle, and at least there's one paramedic out there who does, too!

For me, God's voice wasn't a booming voice and an epiphany, it was in insistent urging to do something I already knew was right. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't listened. From now until forever, the phrase "just do the next right thing," feels really weighty and even urgent. June 13th is a type of New Year's Day for me, where I thank God for whatever He saved me from and muster fresh determination to just do the next right thing.

Stop and Smell the Chicken

I remember clearly when I got the word that my grandpa was dying. He was my step-grandpa, actually, but my most dear and real grandpa. At the time, life was just plain busy. I had a new job, and I additionally worked part time doing medical transcription. I spent a lot of time at church, and I was in the thick of wedding planning (woot!). Aaron and I somehow managed to get a last-minute four days off our combined four jobs, and we headed down to Virginia. We made it in record time - from Chicago(ish) to almostNorthCarolina in something like twelve hours. Then we raced back. Like, literally raced... aaand I got my first speeding ticket in West Virginia. Super traumatizing. And expensive. I highly recommend getting all speeding tickets in one's home state.

There's a point to this story, really.

I'm in a small group right now, studying the book 7: An Experiemental Mutiny Against Excess.  Today we talked about stress and how to intentionally find rest, even in the middle of our crazy. One question we discussed was, "how does our culture go against the grain of observing a time for rest?" We naturally segued into how we live and drive in Chicago(ish) and how it can make us rushed, impatient, and even angry. I had a memory wash over me from that trip to Virginia...

We were on our way back from Grandma's church on Sunday morning. My grandma was driving her car in front , and Aaron and I were in my car behind her. We stopped at a red light and watched as Grandma's door swung open, she stepped out of the car and shuffled her way back to our car. "JENNI!" she hollered as she approached us (She's slightly hard of hearing, which explains the hollering. She is in her seventies and was wearing her church-heels, thus, the shuffling.) You should know that my sweet Grandma is extremely Southern. Not prim-and-proper-Southern-belle, but Blue-Ridge-mountains-directly-related-to-moonshiners-with-residual-hill-folk-drawl. I'm not saying one brand of Southern is superior to the other. I just want to paint a picture for you here of my Granny-ma in her skirt-suit and pumps, hustling back to our car and calling out, "We're gonna git some chicken! Ya'll go on home and we'll meet you there!" 

IN THE MEANTIME, there were several cars pulling up behind us. The light turned from red to green. We had a conversation about lunch with my grandma, fairly certain the drivers behind us would unleash their Southern fury upon us and we would never actually make it to lunch. (Everyone knows that no one will shoot you more politely than a Southerner, but we weren't terribly comforted by this knowledge.) Grandma headed back to her car just in time for the light to turn red again, and there we sat for the longest red light in the history of mankind. The seconds ticked by, and we braced ourselves. To our amazement, no one even beeped. No one threw their hands up dramatically. No one in that long line of cars hollered out their window at us. They just waited. Clearly, they were not in a hurry and they respected the importance of fried chicken.  Since this day, my admiration for the South and the Southern is so great that I give them forever proper noun status, alway capitalized, never merely an adjective. This admiration falls just short of attaching any form of rebel flag to anything that belongs to me. Also, I will not be participating in Civil War reenactment. I will not do it. Not even for a gallon of sweet tea and a slaw dog (A hot dog with chili, onion, mustard and coleslaw. I want to weep just thinking about it, it's that beautiful).

But I digress. For me, this week is about intentionally pausing six times each day, even if the moment feels more green-light than red-light. I thought Jen Hatmaker put it well, "Stress is the calling card of our generation, the proof of our productivity, evidence of our important lives. We're busy. We're incredibly taxed. We're involved in worthwhile and stunning activities. We ensure our kids follow suit, keeping the schedule of a first year trial-lawyer, and the line items sacrificed are family dinners, unplanned afternoons, breathing space, rest." My pauses will include a short reading (from the Psalms), prayer and stillness. I'm a little concerned about how very weird this seems to anyone reading who isn't "in" this study. If you're my friend already, I assure you this is no more weird than any other thing I do on a day-to-day basis. If you're not a friend yet, I hope you'll just assume the best of me! I'll check in with 'all ya'll' on how my week went in six days or so!

Until then, please don't forget to respond appropriately to traffic signals, and to sometimes just stop and smell the chicken.

rose-colored glasses are so-oo 2011...

These thoughts are egregiously hijacked from people who... well... aren't me. Family, friends, Jesus... hopefully not in that order. :)

Lots and lots of years ago, I was in a musical. It was a low-to-no budget production and there were some things that were sacrificed (like maybe safety). One day when we were on stage rehearsing, a board worked its way loose from one of the really tall props and fell onto a girl's head. I remember watching it topple and fall toward this poor girl, it all felt like slow motion. I absolutely had time to push her, holler, try to catch the board - SOMETHING - but I didn't.

I was frozen.

I think back to this sometimes. I so wish this wasn't a reflection of my personality, but it totally is. I see something bad happening, and I'm seized with this pathetic paralysis, caught in indecision until the crisis has passed and the point is moot. I hate it so much, so I decided about a year ago to do something about it! I decided to defy my natural instinct and act. It didn't matter if at the moment my life was good and theirs was bad, I would choose to see the need and try to find a way to help. I happen to have landed in a church with a whole lot of like-minded people when it comes to this, and I LOVE it. Here are some things I am learning from them and from others.

1. Empathize and give yourself permission to act even when what the hurting person is experiencing is more than you can wrap your mind around.

2. Get practical and do what you can do. Cook food, give rides, bring coffee, cry with them. Don't say "Let me know if there's anything I can do," and expect that to actually be helpful.

3. If you just don't know what to say, listen and let your words be few. You don't need to be a licensed psychologist to be there for them. Put your arms around them and shut the heck up.

3. If you do know what to say, wait for the right way and the right time to give your input. People in traumatic situations don't need to be bossed.

4. Let others help, too. It's not about you or me. For some reason, it can be really tempting to 'hog' the hurting person when you're positioned close to them. Maybe it's ego? I don't know, but I think I'm learning how important it is to let others come in and bless in ways they are gifted to bless.

I can't end a post like this without a shameless plug for be(LOVE)ed, a group I am honored to be a part of. They ROCK at caring for people in practical ways during times of sickness, loss, or other need. If you're looking to be a blessing, find other people who are doing it and MOVE with them. I'm looking forward to intentionally "move with the movers!"

Wearing your husband's clothes (and other slippery slopes)

"Can I wear a pair of your dress socks?"

These are actual, non-dramatized words I spoke to my husband a few days ago. As I uttered them, I just knew I had hit a new low. There were two things that brought me comfort, though. First, said socks did not even come close to fitting me - the proper heel of the sock stuck out awkwardly mid-calf. Second, I did have a legitimate need. Upon assessing my sock-drawer situation, I realized I have exactly ONE pair of 'dress' socks, and ZERO pairs of the brown persuasion. I almost had rationalized how completely not-weird it was for me to wear my husband's socks, when, without missing a beat, Aaron cheerfully and non-judgmentally said, "Sure!" This had become so commonplace in our relationship that he didn't even bat an eye.

It's official. I have a problem.

I'm actually kind of normal. I have my very own closet as well as my very own dresser, which contain clothes that both fit me and belong to me. I just find myself increasingly turning my back on my own clothes and going to my husband's closet. It started years ago with one innocent item, a Chicago Bears hoodie he first offered me when we were ALMOST dating. You know the story...the girl is all, "oh dear me, it's just so-oo cold in here" so the guy offers her his big, manly sweatshirt. The girl conveniently 'forgets' to give it back until he officially asks her out,  (in retrospect, she realizes he probably just did this in an effort to get his shirt back) at which point she might as well just keep it forever because they will be married and she will need it as a maternity shirt before he can even blink... I'm sure it makes perfect sense to you that this hoodie now possesses some nostalgic power over me and I keep returning to it. One time, Aaron put it in the Goodwill pile. Upon finding me crouched in the dark closet, clutching it and hissing "my preciousss...", he promptly returned it to its hanger. He's a good man.

I guess this probably WAS cute when we were dating. I paired his shirt with my size 4 ultra low-rise Aeropostle jeans, sitting snugly on hips that resembled those of an 11-year-old boy. It's somehow not as endearing now when the other half of my outfit is the pants I slept in, resting a comfortable seven-and-a-half inches above the hips that have borne two children. Go ahead and throw in whatever-I-fed-Landon-last smeared on my chin and eye makeup from yesterday that appears to be making its pilgrimage from my eyes to my cheekbones. I imagine I must look like a live recreation of Lindsay Lohan mug shots... with birthing hips...

(I just need to admit here, my flair for the dramatic MAY have caused me to exaggerate some of that.) 

I will always-and-forever remember one bridal shower I went to where one of the bridesmaids was offering some words of wisdom. She talked about how her mom would make sure her hair was fluffed (I'm assuming this was in a fluffy-hair era) and she put on fresh lipstick just before her dad came home from work. I think that's so sweet! How awesome would it be to reclaim this slippery slope and work harder to look cute for my sweet hubby when he gets home? It won't always happen, but, by golly, today I will NOT have pumpkin puree on my face when he walks through the door... because I love that man!