Like a Vapor

Yesterday started out like most of my Thursdays do.  I stumbled out of bed and went downstairs to read my Bible while I ate my bagel and yogurt.  I fixed my hair, put on my makeup, brushed my teeth . . . the usual.  I was moving a little slow, so I headed out the door a few minutes later than normal, but I always give myself plenty of time to get to work, so it wasn't a big deal.  I threw my gym bag, purse, and lunch bag into the back of my little green Jetta and off we went.  I don't remember much about the approximately 10 mile drive from my house to the freeway except for two things.  First, I heard a new song on the radio that I hadn't heard before - some country song about a guy who had finally broken up with the dumb girl he was dating and the whole town was rejoicing because then he could finally get together with the girl who had loved him all his life.  It was sort of growing on me.  Second, the radio station 96.1 does their last traffic report of the morning at 7:58 am, and since I was running a couple minutes behind, I realized that I had missed it.  Not a big deal though, because they always say the same thing:  "We have no traffic problems in Lewis County."  


I merged onto the freeway and the right lane was slow, so I moved into the left lane to pass the truck that was putzing along.  But instead of speeding on towards work, I saw brake lights, an almost stopped semi truck, then a puff of smoke, and flying car parts.


I didn't immediately realize what had happened.  I saw the semi truck swerve off to the left, and my first thought was that he had blown a tire, so I slammed on my brakes and checked my rearview mirror to make sure that no one was going to run into me from behind.  I don't know when I realized there had been an accident, but the next thing I remember was that I was running down the side of I-5 towards a crumpled, red, Toyota pickup with my phone to my ear dialing 911.  


There had been one other car between me and the red Toyota, and the guys from that car were already checking on the victims.  I told the 911 operator that there had been a terrible crash on the freeway, and would she please send help quickly?  We couldn't find a pulse on the driver.  The passenger's pulse was there, but faint.


The little red pickup had probably been going about 70 mph when it slammed into the back of an almost stopped semi trailer that was at the tail end of a traffic backup from an earlier accident that had occurred almost four miles north.  By the time I got off the phone with the dispatcher, the people from the car in front of me had realized that the driver was gone, and had moved to the passenger side to try to help him.  


I just stared at the driver for a second.  His body had been crushed into the cab by the impact, and his head was resting on the steering wheel, his blood spattered onto the shattered windshield.  I would later find out that his name was Antoliy, a 43-year old father from Vancouver.  The passenger was his 15-year old son, Mark.


I ran to the passenger side of the truck, where the other witnesses were trying to get a response from Mark.  Nothing.  A paramedic who was driving by had stopped to help, but I don't remember if he was able to do anything.  


It seemed like hours, but I'm sure it was just a few minutes later that the first ambulance arrived.  They pulled Mark from the truck, cut off his clothes, and hooked him up to portable monitors.  I don't remember anything that the paramedics said, but they put him in the ambulance and worked on him there.  I didn't even think to wonder until later why the ambulance didn't immediately leave, but soon after a helicopter appeared and landed on the freeway to take him to the hospital.  From what I read later in news reports though, I think he died before they could even get him into the chopper.  


As I stood in the rain on the side of the freeway waiting for the police to take my statement, I began to realize what had happened and I started to shake uncontrollably.  These two men were dead.  Their lives had ended in a split second not 50 yards in front of me.  I could feel myself starting to panic, so I tried to think about something else, anything else, but all I could see was Antoliy slumped over that steering wheel and Mark's lifeless face as the paramedics worked on him.  


Even today, those two faces were the first things I thought of when I woke up this morning, and I don't think I'll ever forget them.  I've been praying and thinking and trying to make sense of this awful tragedy, and it's just one of those things that you can't wrap up in a box and tie a neat theological bow on.  The thing I keep being reminded of though is this one simple truth:  Our lives are short.


Last Sunday, Pastor Joe told a story.  I don't remember what he was trying to illustrate, but he told of a man whose father had accepted Christ on his deathbed.  The son had decided that that's what he was going to do too: life his life however he wanted, then become a Christian just before he died.  Joe talked about how we have no idea when the end of our life is going to be.  We aren't guaranteed 85 years, then a peaceful passing into eternity with our family around us singing "Kum-by-yah."  I'm sure Antoily and Mark didn't wake up on Thursday, get into their little red pickup, and think that they might die that day in a violent collision with a truck trailer.  But they did.  I have no idea if these two men knew the Lord, but I hope with all my heart that they did. Our lives are so short.  We as humans are so fragile.  It doesn't take much to cause our bodies to stop working.  


I'm not gonna end this post with any cute little inspirational words about living each day like it's your last and making the most of your life.  That's true stuff.  Good stuff, even.  But all I can wrap my mind around right now is that life is short.  We are like a vapor.  We are not guaranteed tomorrow.  

Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow.  You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.  

James 4:14