I got into a car accident on Monday. [It was not my fault.] I was on my way to work, tooling along in the left lane in I-95, wearing Red Sox scrubs in a valiant effort to help them win [although I've never claimed to be superstitious]. I was ready to take care of people who were sick and hurting.
Then. Brake lights in front of me. My car making scary noises, screeching to a halt. A split second of gratitude that I had not hit the car ahead. Crash. I felt the impact and heard the sound and thought "I'm not going to make it to work on time." [I didn't. I actually got a little mini-vacation. Note to self: not the best way to score vacation time.]
It didn't hit me until a couple days after the fact that I could have died. Do you know how many people on I-95 feel that impact and hear that sound and wake up in the long tomorrow? I didn't. I walked away with little more than a sore back.
If I had died on Monday, how would I have been remembered by those I know and love? Would they have remembered me as just the girl who laughed a lot and loved the Red Sox? Would they remember me as the nurse who loved her job? Would they remember me as the ditz that I often am?
Or is there something more that they would remember? When I die, I want to be remembered as the woman who knew how great her sin was and how much greater her Savior was. Because, when it really comes down to it, that's really all you need to know about me.
I'm still alive. Apparently, I still have more to do here before I go home.
