Some things are best written unedited.
I know: writers aren't supposed to write without revising. Editing provides the coherence and fluidity that a first draft simply does not contain. First drafts are too choppy, too raw.
Sometimes, though, that rawness is exactly what a writer needs to communicate.
I've been living a lot lately. Not simply "living" in the ordinary workaday sort of way; living in the "I'm climbing 14,000-foot mountains and traipsing all over this beautiful state and its great outdoors" sort of way. It's a sort of living that only summer can provide, and it's the sort of living for which Colorado provides an unsurpassed environment. Breathtaking mountainscapes, rolling valleys, the neverending panoramic views of wild flowers and sedges and pines... I don't think you've really lived until you've looked into this sort of infinity and been brought to your knees. It's been my privilege to do so continuously for the past two weeks.
Venturing home from these adventures was bittersweet at first: sweet because home is, after two weeks of being away, more welcoming than any other destination could be. It was bitter, not because I had to leave behind a baseball tournament in Steamboat, along with the neighboring mountain towns and views; but because we were forced to creep towards home in what we considered an ungodly standstill of a traffic jam.
Amazing how quickly perspectives can change, isn't it? One moment I'm humbled and awed by the blade of a leaf, almost brought to tears by the intricate network of life in the forest; the next moment, I forget to notice the obvious beauty all around me because of a line of cars. In fact, my family decided to pull over for dinner in Georgetown, typically a 1 1/2 to 2 hour drive from home, to avoid becoming a permanent part of the parking lot on the road. (This decision was probably best for everyone's sanity and stress levels, in all honesty!)
About an hour later, we left the European restaurant we discovered to face the roads once more. The traffic, though lesser, was still present. Needless to say, we were still a little impatient. Getting home at a decent hour is of utmost importance, after all.
We drove for about an hour before reaching Golden at dusk. Yet again, the line of traffic started to slow. This time, though, our countenances shifted quickly from annoyance to concern. On the left shoulder of the road, a dented car faced the wrong direction, its bumper torn away and left to embellish the pavement. My dad slowed our truck to talk to the seemingly uninjured passengers standing next to the vehicle, urgency and immediacy in his voice.
"I used to be an EMT. Does anyone need any medical help?"
The man's face twitched in a moment of realization before he responded,
"...Uh...check the car up ahead."
A few yards ahead on the right side of the road, a mass of twisted steel and glass balanced on what I suppose you could call tires. Nothing about the object seemed like a car, not when the front of the once-vehicle was only a tangle of wires and metal shards. The screaming woman trapped in the driver's seat was engulfed in the wreckage, surrounded by strangers whose greatest desire was to see her stay safe and alive.
My dad whipped his truck into park behind the accident, then jumped to the scene. My mom and I could only stay in the car, praying for his and the other aids' wisdom and the injured woman's safety.
Time dragged by as we all waited for emergency personnel to arrive. After an eon of seconds, the lights appeared on the horizon, soon followed by the sound of wailing sirens. As soon as they had moved into position, taking over where the good Samaritans had left off, my dad came back to the car and once again pulled onto the winding highway.
The rest of our journey was broken between conversation about the occurrence and a heavy silence. Our sentiments, though, united our thoughts for the duration of the ride. The things we spoke and thought revolved around a central question, though:
Were we stuck in traffic just long enough to be at the scene of the accident at exactly that time?
None of us knows what is happening in that situation right now, nor what the woman's life will look like tomorrow or a year from now. What we do know is that we were in exactly the right place at the right time. My dad was the only one at that place for a while who knew anything about medicine, who knew that he needed to get her head immobilized to prevent any further injury to her possibly broken neck. He'd be the first to say that the situation was and is not about him; he'd also be the first to say, though, that such a use of his EMT experience and training is not accidental, and that it still affects him (in more ways than one) to be a part of it.
Amazing how quickly perspectives can change, isn't it? One moment we were growing weary of a traffic-packed highway, counting down the minutes until we pulled into our own driveway; the next, we were begging the seconds to slow, praying that the woman's moans and blood-stained face signified her life more than her pain.
My family and I finally arrived home, and we are more than grateful to be here safely. Tonight was (and still is, really) one of those slap-in-the-face realizations: I take so much for granted. Tonight was a reminder that I am alive, and that I have much to live for. It was a reminder that I don't have a clue about how big God is, and that I'll never really comprehend it. It was a reminder that I wasn't meant to "live" my life by wishing that I were in a different moment than I'm currently in. It was a reminder that every moment is sacred, that every second is to be LIVED and cherished.
I'm humbled tonight. More than anything, though, I'm grateful. My heart is raw, but it's raw once again with the realization that I'm alive. (And oh, how I wish that I didn't forget that so easily...) Whether I'm writing or reading or eating or drinking or sleeping or changing the world in one of a million ways... I'm alive, and I intend to LIVE my life in that realization.
I know I can't do it by myself. I also know that I'll forget that. I know that I'll slip and fall and make horrendous mistakes because I'm human... but that's all the more reason for me to try. It's not my strength that allows me to live, after all. The Spirit of God is ALIVE and well, and He's living in me.
And that is the most humbling thing of all...
