5 Significant Events in my Life
I thought I would begin my effort to conquer the 52 Questions challenge, that FamilySearch.org has created. If you want to view the 52 questions, click HERE. It is meant to help in writing your own life history, and get you thinking about your life, your past, and your future. I thought I would use my blog to tackle the questions at random, as I feel so inclined.
To begin, I will address question number 45 on the list. I will write about 5 significant events in my life, and what effects they have had on me.
However, because I am long-winded, I simply cannot conform to the limited number of 5, and so I will be writing about 8 significant life events. And because I am not brief with words, I will break up the life events into 8 different posts.
I will begin with significant event number one...
1. The Accident: Unbruised and Unbroken
I sat in a mangled station wagon, surrounded by shards of glass and pools of blood. I was only 4 years old at the time of impact, but it was such a powerful force, that there is a permanent crease in my brain devoted to the memory of the moment. I have never forgotten the imagery, and the feelings associated with that day.
It was the day my preschool field trip, turned into a horrific childhood nightmare.
When I was a little girl, seatbelt laws were not yet in place. All of my classmates were sitting in the wood-paneled station wagon, free to move about as birds with unclipped wings. No one was wearing a safety restraint of any kind, including me. We were not being irresponsible, it was just a thing back in the day. A seatbelt was not thought of as a necessity, as it is today.
I was enjoying the journey out of the classroom with my friends, and the warm sunny day. Warmth and sun was the norm living in Phoenix, Arizona. I was so excited to go on a field trip out to a Farm. It was going to be the best day ever!
What child does not love a field trip?
As the child-stuffed station wagon traveled on back country roads, it came to a four way stop. We were all laughing and singing, and making a joyous noise only a car full of preschoolers can produce. And then the singing stopped. Screeching down the road at a ridiculous rate, and without any warning, a large white pickup truck did not take heed to the red octagon sign. The truck-beast smashed directly into the side of the station wagon, crushing the metal, and catapulting the children.
Preschoolers went flying throughout the car, as free as birds falling too early from the nest. Unrestrained and smacked against the metal and glass, the children were broken. The teachers were broken. They were all broken.
I blacked out at some point, but not before I looked around the car at my damaged classmates. I recall my friends sat blanketed in glass, and they were covered from hair to shoes in blood; some their own blood, and some that was not their own.
I looked at my sweet friend, whom I loved. She was a little girl, with black skin. For some reason, the image of her stands out the most to me. Perhaps it is because she was right next to me. I vividly remember looking at her and noticing the way the blood looked against her dark skin. I remember thinking -- even at such a young age -- that we are all flesh and blood, no matter the color of our skin. We all bleed when we get cut. I loved my friend and I could not bare to see her so bruised and broken.
It was like a dream -- a nightmare of a moment -- that seemed to last longer than the time that actually passed. For some reason, time seems to slow down upon forceful impacts. As if the impact slows the spinning of the globe, and life seems to move at snail pace.
I do not remember being removed from the vehicle, but I do remember sitting outside of it. I was surrounded by children, some shrieking, and some sitting silently in shock. There were emergency vehicles and red and blue lights flashing. All of the children were covered in pieces of the car windows, and flesh wounds. I recall one boy had glass in his tongue.
All of the children were badly wounded. The teachers were wounded. Everyone was wounded, except for me.
I was one of those mechanically unrestrained falling birds, and yet I did not break.
I was not broken.
Unlike the other children, I was not as violently flung about the car. An angel teacher wrapped her arms around me, and protected me from the impact.
She saved me.
Later, as I sat in the hospital, I waited anxiously for my mother to arrive. I was trembling, but I was in one piece. I was so worried about my friends, and my teachers. They were all hurt, but no one was in critical condition. I received a lollipop, and when my mother arrived, I was allowed to go home.
I did not have one scratch on my body; I walked away unbruised and unbroken.
I was protected by the hands of an angel.
How has this event effected my life?
I learned early on that life is very fragile. Perhaps a bit of fear entered my world during that moment of impact. I became aware of being mortal as a very young child. I saw what can happen, and that life can change in an instant. I have sometimes lived my life trying to be on the safe side, to avoid such impacts again. But, of course, avoiding impacts is impossible, if you are really living. We are meant to really live, not walk around fearing the unknown accidents that lurk about us. I have learned that when accidents happen, deal with them. It does no good to worry about things that have not happened, and that may never happen, other than in the caverns of fear that swirl in the mind. Live life to the fullest, and give the rest to God.
I also learned that we are all children of God, we are all human -- no matter the color of our skin. At the time of the accident I was a child, and did not have prejudices, as they were not taught in my home. The experience of seeing blood on black skin that belonged to my dear friend, taught me that we are all the same on the inside. And it is what is inside -- the heart, the soul, the spirit -- that defines who we really are. It is wise to see others as God sees them; as His children.
I learned to believe in angels. Sometimes immortal angels reach through the veil from the other side of heaven, to save and protect us. And sometimes angels reach out their mortal hands -- like my teacher did -- and rescue us from harm. Whether guardian angels are in heaven, or on earth, it matters not.
I believe in angels.
*The picture is of me around the time of the accident.
To begin, I will address question number 45 on the list. I will write about 5 significant events in my life, and what effects they have had on me.
However, because I am long-winded, I simply cannot conform to the limited number of 5, and so I will be writing about 8 significant life events. And because I am not brief with words, I will break up the life events into 8 different posts.
I will begin with significant event number one...
1. The Accident: Unbruised and Unbroken
I sat in a mangled station wagon, surrounded by shards of glass and pools of blood. I was only 4 years old at the time of impact, but it was such a powerful force, that there is a permanent crease in my brain devoted to the memory of the moment. I have never forgotten the imagery, and the feelings associated with that day.
It was the day my preschool field trip, turned into a horrific childhood nightmare.
When I was a little girl, seatbelt laws were not yet in place. All of my classmates were sitting in the wood-paneled station wagon, free to move about as birds with unclipped wings. No one was wearing a safety restraint of any kind, including me. We were not being irresponsible, it was just a thing back in the day. A seatbelt was not thought of as a necessity, as it is today.
I was enjoying the journey out of the classroom with my friends, and the warm sunny day. Warmth and sun was the norm living in Phoenix, Arizona. I was so excited to go on a field trip out to a Farm. It was going to be the best day ever!
What child does not love a field trip?
As the child-stuffed station wagon traveled on back country roads, it came to a four way stop. We were all laughing and singing, and making a joyous noise only a car full of preschoolers can produce. And then the singing stopped. Screeching down the road at a ridiculous rate, and without any warning, a large white pickup truck did not take heed to the red octagon sign. The truck-beast smashed directly into the side of the station wagon, crushing the metal, and catapulting the children.
Preschoolers went flying throughout the car, as free as birds falling too early from the nest. Unrestrained and smacked against the metal and glass, the children were broken. The teachers were broken. They were all broken.
I blacked out at some point, but not before I looked around the car at my damaged classmates. I recall my friends sat blanketed in glass, and they were covered from hair to shoes in blood; some their own blood, and some that was not their own.
I looked at my sweet friend, whom I loved. She was a little girl, with black skin. For some reason, the image of her stands out the most to me. Perhaps it is because she was right next to me. I vividly remember looking at her and noticing the way the blood looked against her dark skin. I remember thinking -- even at such a young age -- that we are all flesh and blood, no matter the color of our skin. We all bleed when we get cut. I loved my friend and I could not bare to see her so bruised and broken.
It was like a dream -- a nightmare of a moment -- that seemed to last longer than the time that actually passed. For some reason, time seems to slow down upon forceful impacts. As if the impact slows the spinning of the globe, and life seems to move at snail pace.
I do not remember being removed from the vehicle, but I do remember sitting outside of it. I was surrounded by children, some shrieking, and some sitting silently in shock. There were emergency vehicles and red and blue lights flashing. All of the children were covered in pieces of the car windows, and flesh wounds. I recall one boy had glass in his tongue.
All of the children were badly wounded. The teachers were wounded. Everyone was wounded, except for me.
I was one of those mechanically unrestrained falling birds, and yet I did not break.
I was not broken.
Unlike the other children, I was not as violently flung about the car. An angel teacher wrapped her arms around me, and protected me from the impact.
She saved me.
Later, as I sat in the hospital, I waited anxiously for my mother to arrive. I was trembling, but I was in one piece. I was so worried about my friends, and my teachers. They were all hurt, but no one was in critical condition. I received a lollipop, and when my mother arrived, I was allowed to go home.
I did not have one scratch on my body; I walked away unbruised and unbroken.
I was protected by the hands of an angel.
How has this event effected my life?
I learned early on that life is very fragile. Perhaps a bit of fear entered my world during that moment of impact. I became aware of being mortal as a very young child. I saw what can happen, and that life can change in an instant. I have sometimes lived my life trying to be on the safe side, to avoid such impacts again. But, of course, avoiding impacts is impossible, if you are really living. We are meant to really live, not walk around fearing the unknown accidents that lurk about us. I have learned that when accidents happen, deal with them. It does no good to worry about things that have not happened, and that may never happen, other than in the caverns of fear that swirl in the mind. Live life to the fullest, and give the rest to God.
I also learned that we are all children of God, we are all human -- no matter the color of our skin. At the time of the accident I was a child, and did not have prejudices, as they were not taught in my home. The experience of seeing blood on black skin that belonged to my dear friend, taught me that we are all the same on the inside. And it is what is inside -- the heart, the soul, the spirit -- that defines who we really are. It is wise to see others as God sees them; as His children.
I learned to believe in angels. Sometimes immortal angels reach through the veil from the other side of heaven, to save and protect us. And sometimes angels reach out their mortal hands -- like my teacher did -- and rescue us from harm. Whether guardian angels are in heaven, or on earth, it matters not.
I believe in angels.
*The picture is of me around the time of the accident.
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