It Wasn’t My Time

 

There are moments in life when the distance between an ordinary day and tragedy is measured in inches.

I’ve thought about that a lot today - with good reason. 

Yesterday started out as a good day, even though it centered around a funeral home. My wife Carol, my oldest son Matt, and I had gone to pay our respects to the family of lifelong friends. As strange as it sounds, it turned into one of those bittersweet gatherings that reminds you how deeply connected your life is to other people. We saw old friends we hadn’t laid eyes on in decades. There were hugs, old stories, laughter, and the kind of catching up that somehow picks right back up where it left off.

A wonderful event, though it was obviously wrapped in sadness.

Afterward, the three of us went to eat. Nothing fancy. Just a pleasant meal and good conversation before heading home. It felt like a completely normal evening. Ordinary in every way.

And then, within a matter of seconds, it almost wasn’t.

We pulled up to a traffic light and waited. When the light turned green, I did what I always do - paused for a second or two before easing into the intersection. I’ve always believed that extra moment can save you from somebody trying to beat the light.

As we moved forward, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A full-size Chevy truck was barreling toward the intersection at what I’d estimate was 40 or 50 miles an hour. He wasn’t slowing down. Not even a little. My guess is the driver was on his phone, though I’ll never know for certain.

What I do know is this: he was absolutely going to run that red light and slam into us at a high rate of speed. 

Most people, when danger appears suddenly, slam on the brakes. That’s human nature. But by the grace of God, my instinct did the opposite. I floored it.

Our little Honda CR-V lunged into the intersection. The truck driver swerved ever so slightly at the last possible second, and somehow - somehow we cleared him. Barely.

I kept waiting to feel the explosion of metal against the rear of the car. I can still feel that sensation today — the certainty that impact was coming. But it never did. He missed us by inches. Just inches.

I pulled off the highway a few moments later because I was shaking too badly to keep driving. Carol and Matt were shaken too, though thankfully unharmed. We sat there quietly for a minute, each of us replaying what had just happened.

And the truth hit me hard.

If I had hit the brakes instead of the accelerator, that truck would have T-boned us directly at the driver’s side door. A full-size truck traveling that fast into a Honda CR-V would not have ended well for me. In fact, I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have survived it.

I know because I’ve lived through something similar before.

This near collision tore a scab off an old wound. My mother was killed in a T-bone automobile accident years ago. So when I say I understand the violence of that kind of collision, I do. It’s not abstract to me. I’ve already seen the devastation it leaves behind.

This morning, Carol and I talked about the accident again. I asked her, “Do you think that driver would’ve gone to jail?”

“Yes. Most likely involuntary manslaughter.”

And she’s probably right.

What struck me afterward was how one careless act -  not malicious, not intentional, just irresponsible - could have changed the course of so many lives forever. Mine. My family. The driver’s. My friends. In an instant, half a dozen futures could have been rewritten.

That’s the frailty of life.

We make plans. We assume tomorrow is waiting for us. We complain about small inconveniences and put off important conversations because we think there will always be another opportunity.

Then suddenly, a truck runs a red light.

Yesterday simply wasn’t my time. I understand that, and I’m grateful for it. More grateful than I can properly express.

But I’ll also tell you this: when you come within inches of never seeing your family and friends again, it changes you a little. It reminds you that ordinary moments are not guaranteed. They are gifts.

And sometimes, you don’t fully realize that until you almost lose them.