My Longest Day

Last weekend was the fourth anniversary of the rollover accident which I describe in the first chapter of What Good Is God? Appropriately, we spent it with some wonderful friends from the church in Los Alamos, New Mexico, where I spoke on Prayer the day before my Ford Explorer slipped off an icy road and tumbled over and over down an embankment.

February 25, 2007, was the longest day of my life.  In all I spent seven hours strapped to a body board as doctors tried to determine whether a fragment of the crushed vertebrae had punctured my carotid artery.  “We have a jet standing by to fly you to Denver for emergency surgery,” the doctor told me.  “But, truthfully, if the artery is punctured, you won’t make it.”

Seven hours is a long time.  I reviewed my life, regrets and nostalgic memories both, contemplated a possible future as a paraplegic, called loved ones to tell them goodbye just in case.  As a Christian writer, I knew I should be thinking spiritual thoughts, but I have to admit that my main regret was that I had climbed 51 of the 54 14,000-foot mountains in Colorado.  I can’t die yet—I have three more to climb, I kept thinking.

That same summer, after the neck brace came off, I climbed the last three 14ers.  Now, four years later, I’m back skiing moguls and enjoying this grand world.  I feel very blessed, and will never forget the born-again feeling of getting another chance at life.  Not everyone has that chance.  I have friends who went through similar accidents and never walked again, and others who have permanent brain injuries; the crosses beside the Colorado roads (and on Colorado mountain trails) bear witness to still others whose lives ended abruptly.

During the recovery months I heard from friends, loved ones, and readers whom I have never met.  As I read the kind of heartfelt words that people often don’t express until it’s too late, I felt like Tom Sawyer attending his own funeral.  On down days, I sometimes rummage in a box and re-read them.

The overwhelming gift I take away from my accident is a bedrock sense of gratitude for life itself.  This afternoon I stopped work and hiked along a ridge with a view of snow-capped mountains, sat on a rock and watched the birds flit from tree to tree, startled a herd of deer grazing on the hillside.  Spontaneous praise spilled out. For all its problems, this world is a magnificent place.  I rejoice that I am still here to enjoy it.

“Anyone who is among the living has hope—even a live dog is better off than a dead lion!…Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do.”  (Ecclesiastes (9: 4, 7)