Who Deserves Mercy Most?

A ship capsized off the northern California coast last week and the Coast Guard arrived in time to save all seven people–which included three children under ten. It was a miracle in our frigid waters, because no one wore a life jacket.

Like many writers to the editor of the paper, I was indignant. What were those parents thinking not putting the children into life jackets? Were they fools?

A thought flit through my mind: Did I have any business asking that question?

Who deserved God’s mercy most? Them or me?

Well, neither.

In my own case, it was a clear, frigid New Year’s Eve afternoon in 1985 Connecticut. My husband had been out to sea for far too long. His mother had come for Christmas; a disappointed holiday wherein she asked too many times, “won’t he at least call on Christmas day?”

He was on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean in a submarine. No.

The poor woman fell ill and by New Year’s Eve needed a doctor. I farmed out the boys–ages two and four–to a friend and took her. She had pneumonia.

What an awful day, and when I retrieved the children, they were in bad moods. I had lonely boat wives coming for dinner, I needed to hurry home.

The two-year-old refused to be buckled into his car seat, which was behind the passenger in our two-door Toyota Celica.

It was only a mile home. The weather was clear. “Fine,” I shouted. “Forget your buckles. We’ll be home soon.”

I shoved him into the unbuckled seat, climbed over the four-year-old, stepped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, fastened my seatbelt and turned the ignition.

A little ribbon of voice went in one ear and out the other. “But you always buckle them into their seat belts.”

I felt exasperated. I blew out my breath. Undid my seat belt, opened the door, stepped over the four-year-old, slammed the two-year-old back into his seat, tightened the belts as tight as possible, climbed back out over the four-year-old, flung my body into the driver’s seat, slammed the door as hard as I could, buckled my belt, turned on the ignition and waved goodbye to my friend.

Seething, I drove the mile home.

Except, we never made it.

On a clear stretch of highway, while the left hand turn blinker flashed, I waited for traffic to clear so we could go up our driveway on the other side of the road.

A car ran into us at what I later learned was 50 mph, striking hard just behind where my two-year-old sat.

I saw the horror on the Volkwagen Rabbit’s driver’s face as our car was hurled into his. I remembered a bumper car outing at the Prater amusement park in Vienna, Austria, sixteen years before. All I could think was, “don’t hit him head on!”

I stood on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel to the left, just as the other driver turned his to the right. My right front fender and his left struck each other and we came to a halt at my mailbox.

That stretch of the country highway had no sidewalks, but a man in white clothes stood beside my door when I looked up. “You have to get the children out of the car,” he said. “There’s gas all over the road and it could blow.”

Once upon a time I had wondered what to do if I were ever in an accident. Which child would I get out of the car first?

The answer: the one closest to me.

The driver’s seat had collapsed, striking my four-year-old’s jaw. He was crying. I could hear the sound of an ambulance on the way.

I knew it was coming for my children.

My two-year-old stared with enormous eyes. His upright car seat had broken on inpact.

I yanked the buckles I had pulled so tight not five minutes before. The man in white seized the child when I handed him out.

I don’t remember how we got my mother-in-law out of the car.

Across the street, I saw the smashed sedan that had hit us. An ambulance was over there, too.

An EMT grabbed my arm. “Ma’am, we need you over here. We’re losing the little one.”

They’d strapped my two-year-old son to a backboard. He stared at me with his brown eyes wide.

“He won’t say answer any questions. We don’t know how badly he’s hurt,” the EMT said.

“Jonathan, are you okay?” I begged.

He nodded.

“Why won’t you talk to them?”

He’s always been a matter-of-fact child: “Strangers.”

I laughed in relief. We’d been reading a picture book, Never Talk to Strangers. “You can talk to the policeman or an ambulance driver.”

“Okay,” he said.

Both boys enjoyed the thrilling ride to the hospital with sirens sounding. They were fine.

The woman who hit us went through the windshield; she never knew where she was and must bear scars to this day. My mother-in-law had pain for the rest of her life.

And me?

Had my child died because of my negligence, my life for all purposes would have been over.

God is merciful.

I did not deserve His mercy.

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