Brazen Bravery

A nurse stepped across the hall and gently closed the door to Andrea’s room.
The grassy median. That is where they found my sister. A nurse had come upon the scene and said she was laboring in her breathing but unresponsive in any other way. Later, we were told her heart had stopped but medics were able to revive her in route to the hospital. Her injuries were so severe that she would have experienced no conscious pain.
This is our peace.
Windows blown out, doors warped and smashed and dangling by their hinges, the remains of the van resembled a tin can crushed and squeezed and ready for recycling. It would seem no one would want a relic from this scene, but I did. The day after the accident, I had David take me to the scene. I had to walk the walk. See the place. Touch the grass. Feel what I could feel.
Traces of tragedy littered the grass. Surgical gloves and syringes. Left behinds I wasn’t expecting to see. It didn’t matter though. I was numb.
Walking towards the white-chalk outline on the cement, I knew it served to mark the body of our friend, Alex. Standing over the dusty lines, it felt like holy ground. Silently I prayed for his family and those who loved him. And those who would never be the same.
Looking around I saw the pencils, paper, chrome trim, and even sheet music littered in the median. I gathered all I could. Picking up the pieces was somehow helping to fix the brokenness. But not. So much left behind. So much loss.
There, nestled in the grass like an Easter egg waiting to be discovered was a beige ashtray. The force that had sucked it out of its socket must have been fierce.
Symbolic, at best, to what had happened just shy of twenty-four hours earlier.
Now, here I am, 28 years later, and I still have it. It’s tucked away in my personal keepsake box under the stairs in our garage. I can’t formulate a solid reason why I keep it. I just can’t justify a way to let it go. It is most likely the only remaining tactile piece of that tragedy.
Some things you just can’t let go.
Studying the scene, odds would say nobody survived. Perhaps those who did felt sadness in living. Through the years I’ve listened to choir members, as well as their parents, share how they or their child had switched places with someone in the van that day. The pressure of living, and living well, seems to be a precursor for every step.
The question, “Why?” An apology and praise intertwined. It strangles the moment.
The Olivet bus waited at the rest area for the van to arrive. As vehicles came pouring in and traffic stood frozen, students and faculty disembarked from the bus and were quickly told of the dreadful accident.
Dr. George Dunbar, Orpheus director with the heart and soul of a saint, boarded the empty Olivet bus and was driven back through the median and into the pulse of destruction. This man, lover of souls, had to walk among the debris—suitcases, clothes, pillows, and books—and breathe in the devastation.
He had to identify Alex and name the dying.
Dr. Dunbar stayed until everyone had been attended to and transported to various hospitals in the area.
He stayed.
He stayed for the remainder of his life. The weight he carried over the next few days, months, years is one that cannot be measured. There were visits and letters to our family and others. His attention never waned. He knew Andrea’s name and he knew ours. As David and I began our music ministry career, he sent encouraging letters of support. George was present, active, and faithful in every phase and in every way.
A strong heart can trump great trauma. Andrea’s body was racked, battered, and swollen, but her shoulder-length brown locks gave her away. She lay still and silent.
Beep, beep, beep, beep. The perpetual reminder that a machine was calling the shots.
The diagnosis: her brain waves were not functioning. But, as an athlete, a tennis player, her heart was strong and conditioned to power through. Her body would survive until her heart decided the match was over.
The following day, my parents asked David and me to go to Olivet to pack Andrea’s belongings. Exiting through the same hospital lobby doors that welcomed our naïve minds just days before, we were leaving far heavier and armed with an unwanted perspective. A perspective that flushed over our spirits, like hot lava spilling over hard layers of solid rock waiting to accept the inevitable. It occurred to me that we are never promised a peaceful tomorrow or a fair tomorrow.
Or even a tomorrow.