This is part 3 of an ongoing story. If you haven’t read the first two parts, feel free to use the links above to catch up. This part of the story depicts an accident that changed the main character, Ruth’s life. Sometimes accidents, no matter how small, can change the course of our lives. Once I remember hearing a preacher talk about the concept of why bad things happen to good people. He talked about how there are no “good” people. We have all sinned and fallen short, with no hope of redemption except in Jesus. We should be thankful that good things happen to us bad people. When something bad happens in my life, I find myself wanting to blame God or others. “Why does this have to happen to me?” Yet James wrote, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds. The testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work. This way, you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. (James 1:2-4, NIV).
And so despite how difficult it may be, we have to keep going. Because on the other side of pain is a joy unlike anything we’ve ever known. We’ll be stronger and closer to our God. I pray that all of your struggles are forming you, shaping you, to become better. More like Jesus.
Part 3
When I was ten, I was in a terrible car crash. My dad was driving down a dark, winding road in Colorado. Suddenly, a car went too fast on the curve and swerved into our car. All I remember were the headlights. Thinking that they were too bright. Apparently our car flipped over on its side. My mother went straight to heaven, I was told later.
No tearful goodbyes. Though one of the last things she ever said to me was, “Don’t listen to others’ lies. They’ll never know you the way you know yourself.”
To this day, I cannot remember the context. I must have been talking about someone saying something hurtful.
I woke up in a hospital bed with my father sleeping across from me. His head was wrapped with various bandages as were his arms and legs. He was asleep it seemed. My mother was nowhere to be seen.
I felt a wetness on my cheek and realized it was a tear. I was ten and had no idea what had happened. I couldn’t wipe my face since my hand was in a cast. It was the first time in my life I had felt a loss of control. Or perhaps it was a wake up call. That I never really had any control in the first place. I struggled with being a control freak for the next 23 years.
The months after the accident were a blur I’d rather forget. My dad was so devastated by my mother’s sudden passing. After suing the driver of the car that crashed into us, he gained thousands for the damages. Despite this, he fell into a hole of vices. Drugs, drinking, anything that could ease the ache but never did.
My sister wasn’t in the accident because she was staying with a friend that night. She was devastated but somehow not broken like I felt. She missed our mother, of course, but she didn’t carry the brunt of our father’s spiral. He would blame me for everything that went wrong. I guess I was the closest target.
One particularly bad night, about a year after the accident, my dad picked my sister and me up early from school. This was an unusual occurrence that immediately set off alarm bells in my head. We were silent as we climbed into the car, exchanging worried glances that spoke volumes more than words could convey. He looked angry. But it wasn’t the obvious kind of anger. It wasn’t the type you might expect to see in someone who had just received bad news. It also wasn’t the type you’d expect after facing an unexpected setback. His posture was stiff, tight as a coiled spring, and his face was neutral, almost too composed for the situation. He had even smiled at one of the teachers that passed by. It was a forced expression that felt out of place. It was a mask he wore to conceal the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. Yet, if you looked at his eyes, you’d see a storm raging within. It was a type of anger that would build up. It felt like a volcano that would ultimately erupt. I had the unsettling feeling that it would only be a matter of time before it did. It would release all the pressure pent up for far too long. Every second in that car felt burdensome. Unspoken words and emotions thickened the air. The tension created an atmosphere that was almost suffocating.
I would try to catch Clara’s gaze. She was only eight at the time. Since the accident, we both learned the hard way to brace ourselves.
My dad, in the calmest voice possible, said, “I’m dropping you off at home. I’ll be back later. You can take care of your sister, right Ruthie?”
Confused, I simply nodded silently.
“I want to hear you say you will. Now.”
Taking a breath, I whispered, “Yes, I will.”
“Louder. You know how I feel about whispering. No one will ever take you seriously if you can’t speak out.”
Louder this time. “Yes, I will.”
“Good,” he said, seemingly satisfied.
He stayed silent the rest of the drive. Not bothering to tell us why we had to leave school early, he dropped us off and left shortly after. Clara and I subsisted on some leftover meatloaf. I made sure she went to bed early.
I had fallen asleep on the living room couch until suddenly I was jolted awake by the sound of police sirens. There was a loud knock on the front door.
“It’s the police, open the door.”
Sleepily, I opened the front door. There were five police officers who looked at me. Confused, they asked me where my father was. I could only stare. Not knowing what to say.
One of them was a woman, who knelt down and asked me if I had seen my father today, in a gentle tone.
Gathering up my courage, I responded, “Yes, he picked us up from school today.”
“Us? Who else is in the house with you?” one of the officers asked abruptly.
“Just my sister, Clara. She’s sleeping.”
“Listen sweetie,” the female officer began, “we’re going to be taking you and your sister with us to the police station. We’ll call one of your family members. Do you know anyone we can call to help you and your sister?”
“Um, my aunt, I guess. She’s probably sleeping too though,” I said as I bit my lip.
“Ok sweetie. You and your sister are going to be just fine.”
Slightly disheveled and shaken, my aunt met us at the police station. My sister was sleeping on my shoulder. Unaware of what was happening. To be fair, I didn’t have much of a clue either.
My aunt talked to the police, her voice trembling as she recounted the events of that day. She was still shaken when she spoke to my sister and me. Her eyes were wide with fear and concern. We would be staying with her for a little bit, at least until things settled down. On the outside, I nodded. I was trying to appear brave and composed. Inside, I could only wonder where my dad was. A whirlwind of anxiety swirled in my mind. No one had mentioned him. The silence around his absence felt deafening. It left a gap that seemed impossible to fill. I anxiously glanced at my sister. I hoped she would share some clarity that was clearly eluding me.
The next day, my aunt told my sister and I that our dad would be gone for a little while. We wouldn’t be able to call or see him for a long time. In the meantime, we were to live with our aunt.
Life continued on. After the accident, my father’s strange and erratic behavior, that set my teeth on edge, only escalated. To the point that a part of me was relieved we wouldn’t have to live with him for a while.
My aunt took us to her church and indulged us. We had all the clothes and makeup girls our age “needed” to be cool. At church, my sister made lots of friends. Almost instantly becoming the popular girl. I remember hiding in the corners, trying not to be spotted. Bible study was never my thing. I vaguely recall the stories of Jonah and Moses.
In any case, my sister grew close to my aunt, treating her like a mother. My aunt in turn doted on Clara. She seemed to tolerate me well enough most days.
I would sometimes ask about my dad. Until I was about 13 my aunt only gave vague answers until one day I threatened to run away if she didn’t tell me where he was.
She sighed heavily and told me to sit down. “Alright, fine.”
She took me back to that day. The last day I saw my dad. She told me that he got into trouble that night. He picked us up early because he needed to go settle his debts with a loan shark named Steve.
However, since he couldn’t pay Steve back, he had apparently decided to take matters into his own hands, and tried to hurt Steve. She didn’t go into further detail, but the chain of events led to my dad landing in prison. He was sentenced to 15 years in a medium security prison with possibility of parole.
I was silent as I listened to this story that seemed like a work of fiction. Like I was watching a movie. Until I finally accepted that this was my dad. This was really happening.
I wept that night. Crying as though my dad had died. I guess in a way he was taken from me. I cried the whole night until I didn’t have any water left in my small body. Then I never cried for him again. I made the decision that I wouldn’t think of him again. I wouldn’t let the accident or his behavior ruin my life.
Most days I was fine. I made some friends (we called ourselves the outsiders), did well in school, and managed to live a fairly normal life. No one knew the burden I carried. Except my sister because I had to share it with her. She seemed to shrug it off.
“Ruth, don’t think about him. He’s not coming back, so why waste the energy?” Clara would always say if he was ever brought up in conversation.
And so I tried. Really. But some days I couldn’t help myself. And those days hurt. A lot.
Shaking myself out my reverie, I held up a popcorn bucket. The hand that stretched to grab it was wrinkled, but also familiar. I looked up into my father’s eyes.
Streams of Comfort 
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