Faith Works 4-14-23

Faith Works 4-14-23
Jeff Gill

When I Died, and After
___

Thirty years ago, I died. Not quite, but near enough.

I was heading back to the church I was serving from the campus, and crossing 21st St. was hit by someone running a red light, screened from my sight by a stopped car in the nearer lane.

The driver got out of their equally wrecked car holding onto the dashboard cigarette lighter, which told me all I needed to know about how it had happened.

It was what they call a t-bone, with the other car hitting me square on the front right tire. The officers and ambulance crew responding told me that mitigated the effects of the accident: a half-second earlier, hitting the corners, both might well have flipped up and over, while a half-second later might have bent my car in half to the breaking point around the other's engine block, which could have driven on through and into my lap.

Neither happened: the other car hit my tire and axle square, and the vehicles bounced a bit, mine rolling into the grass on through, the other slewing sideways into the now completely blocked intersection.

I had, on impact, surged forward behind my seat belt into the roof where it met the windshield, cutting my forehead but my skull didn't quite impact anything, something it took a while for the paramedics to feel certain of as they swabbed my blood out of my face. But it was just a small cut; the seat belt, indeed, saved my life, no question of it.

The other driver had to have had their seat belt on, but as I mentioned, got out with the round dashboard lighter in hand, also relatively unscathed. They also walked over to where I had literally crawled out of my car and shouted at me standing overhead "you hit my car! you hit my car!"

Then that other driver walked up to the officer who had shown up in mere moments and asked "can I get into my car (which was in the middle of the intersection) and get my cigarettes?" He said "no" and walked over to me.

Still shouting "he hit my car, it was his fault" the officer knelt next to me, and asked if I was alright. I said, tentatively, "no, not really, but I don't think anything is broken." He leaned over, and said "there's no way you hit them, sheet metal doesn't lie." Then he went back and started directing traffic as the ambulance pulled up.

I've remembered that ever since. "Sheet metal doesn't lie." People do, but there are facts and evidence and stories more reliable than the ones we tell ourselves. I did not die, not in the impact, and not after. My whole body ached for a few days, but that was it.

Back at home, I watched the tragedy in Waco play out in a semi-daze, both the unreality of the scene and story in Texas, and also my own situation. What had just happened to me? I nearly died, and in seconds someone was standing over me screaming patent falsehoods for the world to hear. I was upset about the latter immediately; it had taken a few hours for me to internalize the former, more significant event.

Archbishop Cranmer's words in the Book of Common Prayer for a burial service are quite relevant to many occasions: "In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord."

We do not live to die, but death is part of life, and remembering that can give our living a sense of proportion and purpose. I think about that every time I drive through that intersection…very cautiously.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he always wears his seat belt, and you should, too. Tell him how you've learned lessons at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.