I was eighteen and on the cusp of leaving home for college. Like most 18 year old kids, I thought I had all the answers. When I was very young my mom had taken me and my brother to church regularly. Once she started working outside of the home, that began to wain until it died out all together. An elementary school friend of mine had offered to take me with him to his church on Wednesday night for their youth program. His name was Daniel, and as it turned out what was an offer to take me to church one Wednesday, turned out to be every Wednesday night for several years. Every week I would hear stories from the Bible, sing songs, and spend time with friends that believed in Jesus and God. I owe a lot to Daniel and his family!
I continued attending Wednesday night all the way through my high school years. The teen program incorporated sports each night, especially basketball. Now, when it comes to basketball I don't match the stereotypical player's body build. In fact, I resemble the ball more than I do most players, but I loved to play.
It's important to the story to understand that during my teens I lost three people who were close to me. The first of these was an uncle who had been bed ridden for years. He would lay in his bed and tell me stories from when he was a young man in the war. His passing was hardly unexpected, but the first time you lose someone you actually knew, that you really cared for, it's always hard.
Next was the loss of my younger cousin. His death was a shock that came out of right field. One moment he was a normal kid, and the next moment he was gone....
Finally came my Uncle David. David was the cool uncle that every kid wants. He had been a rodeo cowboy in his younger days and I can still remember riding in his truck to go watch him. One day he left for work, and the phone call came....
As I've already admitted, I was a bit of a know it all (some might say I still am). I had been taught the Bible, I had heard the stories, but somewhere in my mind I couldn't shake this feeling that if God loved me, all of this shouldn't be happening. Slowly, I went from believing, to being unsure. I wanted to believe in God, I just wasn't sure that I still did.
I still made Wednesday Night programs every week. I wasn't going to miss basketball with the guys, and that meant still going to the lessons too.
It was one of those hot, muggy North Carolina nights when it has rained just enough to make the asphalt steam. My best friend and I had been to town and were riding home in his little pick-up truck. We hadn't a care in the world. We were heading for my house that night, talking and joking about the first thing that popped in our minds.
As the truck pitched to the right we began heading down a long, down hill turn. I had my arm hung out the truck window, letting the warm night air rush into the cab. There was no warning. One moment we were flying down the hill, the next moment the truck was sliding on the passenger's side throwing sparks and debris into the open window.
With a jerk, the truck lurched onto it's roof, still sliding down the steep hill. We hung upside down, suspended by our seat belts, things tumbling around the cab all around us. The roof that was now below us creaked and erupted in sparks as the asphalt ate away the sheet metal that had once covered our heads.
I remember thinking, "Okay Lord, if you're really there this would be a good time to show it." The truck slid to a stop and began to spin in long, slow circles. My friend and I looked at each other a moment and in unison undid our seat belts. We fell to the floor with a jarring thud and quickly began to army crawl our way out the window.
Adrenaline was pumping through my veins and for the moment I thought I had escaped without much damage. One look at Dave's pale face and drooping jaw told me a different story. "I'm so sorry Dano," then as though talking to an invisible crowd he said, "Oh my God I've killed Dano." Dave ran down the rest of the hill toward the nearest house still yelling and screaming that he would get help.
A bright light from the top of the hill began to pour down and I could hear the sound of tires on the wet asphalt getting closer. For the first time I noticed the blood that was soaking my shirt and jeans, and I began to shake.
I could see the outline of people running toward me through the headlights. As they got close enough to identify, I knew my prayer had been answered. Driving down that street, this night happened to be the youth sponsors from my Wednesday Night Church program. They called 911, they even sent someone to go get my parents and bring them to the scene, and they stood beside me holding me and telling me that everything would be alright.
That night they operated to clean out the debris from the accident. They closed the gap in my arm up as well as they could. It took stitches on the inside and outside of the arm to get the job done, though I remember them debating about a skin graph before the medicine put me under. The scar left behind, now 13 years old, still runs from my wrist to my elbow, a constant reminder of that night.
Some may say that it was a coincidence that my youth sponsors were traveling down that road, at that time, on that night. I know better. I know that God was telling a confused and hurt young man that he wasn't alone, that I am never alone. I've faced many trials and hardships since that day back in 1996, but never again have I wondered if there was a God.
I know my wife will get a kick out of this final statement. For some people God works in gentle whispers and nudges in the right direction, for me it took running me over with a pick-up truck. Thank God for pick-up trucks!
