Seeing God through Shattered Glass

I sat there, stuck between the white truck in front of me and the white car behind me the first morning in May. I waited in my own green Mazda as the cop walked from his unmarked cruiser to mine. We exchanged the traditional civilities, “License and registration,” “Here you are, officer,” “Do you know you were going eighteen over the speed limit?” “Yes sir”: the normal exchange. He proceeded to the truck which he, impressively, had pulled over along side of me.

As he dealt with the other driver, I called my mom. Better to let her know now than later I thought. Unsurprisingly, she was not happy, and unfortunately, half of my classmates passed me as I sat there. I would have to deal with their grief all day before returning home to deal with my mom’s. I knew I would not be speeding for at least the next several days, if I was even driving.

Eventually he was finished with each of us and returned to me with my ticket. I politely told the officer, “Thank you,” and drove off. Only two days later those words would be much more than a simple gratuity.
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It had been a long week of track and then drama practice until ten, and homework until twelve or even one in the morning. Add to that my speeding ticket on Thursday and Saturday came at a great relief. The night before was the first performance of Bye, Bye, Birdie, our school musical, and after this night it would all be over, finally.

I returned to school for the last night of our spring drama. I had only a small role in the musical, and eventually, it was all over. Afterwards, the entire cast went out to eat to cap off the production. We ate and hung out, and shortly after eleven, I was in my own car, on my way home.

I drove north from the restaurant and eventually was on Buckley Road, which takes me straight home. The late nights and stress of the week were catching up with me as I drove, but I was sure I could make it home safely. Within five minutes of my house, I found out just how wrong I was.

I fell asleep only to be woken up by the median divider my car had driven onto. I had only a second to recognize the bush in front of me and process, “Oh, crap,” before I flipped my car, rose into the air, and landed with a bang back on the road and on the driver’s side of the car, before coming back down, right side up.

The world stopped, time froze around me. I looked around my car. The smell of gunpowder filled the air and a tingle of numbness rested on my lips. Both airbags hung limp after having exploded outward to protect me and a passenger who did not exist. The face of the radio was detached and missing. One side view mirror remained, tethered only by some wires, but its brother was missing entirely. The windshield had fractured, its cracks rippling out from the corner like a stone in a broken pond. My mind proceeded to myself, but I felt no pain. I put my hands to my face and only than did I feel the cold blood running down from the top of my head.

I knew I needed to call for help. Only briefly did I consider calling my parents, but I could not bare the thought of telling my parents, my mom especially, that I had not kept their son safe. Instead, I pulled my phone from my pocket, and although it had been whining for hours to be charged, made the 911 call.

“Hello, 911. What is your emergency,” a woman with a calm voice asked me.

“Hello,” I told the operator, “I was just in a car accident. I fell asleep and rolled my car. I’m north on Buckley, just south of Buckley and Quincy. I’m in a green Mazda 626, license plate 316-GDM. I have blood running down my forehead.” The rush of information was as much for my benefit as for hers. I had to prove to myself that I was okay. I had not forgotten anything or hurt my head in my crash and was relieved to find out that much was true.

Before the call had even ended, the first police officer had arrived and within the next thirty seconds, so had an ambulance, a fire truck, and several more cop cars. After insuring that I was okay and receiving my information, they let me get out of the car. Miraculously, I was able to do so under my own power. My legs had not been injured, and I could open the door without any sort of jam or struggle. I sat myself on the stretcher and the EMTs strapped me in. One of the officers, having just heard my name, asked, “Stibrich? Is your mom JoAnn Stibrich and does she work at Mt. Olive?”

“Yes,” I answered him, but I failed to grasp the strangeness of the question.
Another officer offered to call my parents, and I immediately accepted, knowing that I could not do it myself. “But please,” I appealed, “make sure you tell them first that I am okay,” anything to calm their fear.

I was loaded into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. The ride was oddly pleasant. It was nice to be away from the car, now smashed and tattered, and inside something sheltered. The EMT riding along in the back was young, but very nice. He helped me to relax and calm down as I had been shaking since I stepped out of my car. Soon enough, I was being unloaded from the ambulance and wheeled into the emergency room. Before he left me in the hands of an ER doctor and nurses, the EMT turned to me and told me, “You are the luckiest guy I’ve seen all day,” and he was right. I had just gone through a violent crash and came out of it with only scratch on my head.

A nurse came and attended to me. Soon afterwards the sound of wailing entered the room, and about a minute later, my mom followed her own cries in with my dad close behind. The next few moments were a fury of tears and hugs as my parents were relieved to hold me in their arms and know that I was okay.

Soon after the reunion calmed down, the same officer who asked about my mom entered the room. He wanted to check up on me, and on my mom. As it turned out, his son attended my mom’s preschool. He recognized my name at the crash scene and was immediately concerned. In the days that followed, he offered some additional support and provided us with information about the accident we otherwise would not have known. He left shortly after stepping into the room.

My parents and I spent several hours in the emergency room. A doctor came and examined my head which a nurse had cleaned and determined I would not need stitches. A CT-scan showed I did not have a concussion either. The time we had in that room allowed my mom and me to reflect on my accident and my relative lack of injuries. We realized just how blessed I had been, just how much God had protected me. The front and back of my car had been destroyed, but the body had held intact, protecting me. I hit no other cars, putting no one else at risk and saving me from the lifelong guilt of harming and endangering someone else. Most important was two days earlier I was pulled over for speeding and received a ticket. That ticket slowed me down. That ticket saved my life.

We realized the EMT was wrong. I was not the luckiest guy as he had said; rather, I was the most blessed.