Nothing good ever comes on the rings of a mid-night phone call. This past Saturday night, it was news that one of our kids had been in a car accident. She was okay enough to make the phone call that jolted me out of my deep slumber, but she was rattled and high on adrenaline. And she didn’t need me to come get her. The tow truck driver would drop her off at her apartment, on the way to drop Minerva Minivan at a body shop.
As any mother knows, you can’t just go back to sleep after hearing that. My thoughts were coming in compound sentences, my mouth was dry, and my heart was debating whether it wanted to race or to take the 2 mph scenic route.
Hours later, I was in the car, headed to get her and take her to the hospital to be checked out. After the hospital, I called both our and the other guy’s insurance companies and then a lawyer. I picked up prescriptions and comfort food from the grocery. Then I was off again, because nothing soothes like The Bobbie from Capriotti’s.
When all was settled for the rest of the weekend, I breathed. And I turned to my Gratitude Journal.
I started a new journal on January 1, 2014. But, as I tend to do, I had already fallen out of the habit of writing in it every night. The guilt I felt was overwhelming. Was this a wake-up call?
Our daughter was not alone on the freeway that night. Several people rushed to her just moments after she was hit. The police officer assured her she had done nothing wrong. The tow truck driver dropped her off and disappeared before she could even give him a tip. Her roommate had take-out in the fridge waiting to nourish her. And our family and friends were all sending love and light and prayers and happy thoughts.
I am grateful that I have been given so much to be thankful for. And writing in my journal doesn’t feel like a chore anymore. I am awake.
