First Responders

There are those pivotal moments in life that unearth something you didn’t know before … about yourself … about those you love most in the world.

Eighteen months ago on a hot August night, our little family of three was headed home from the state fair—laughing and joking. We stopped at Waffle House for a cheap meal, continuing our conversation.  Looking out the front window of the restaurant, we noticed a young, 30-something man stumbling through the parking lot. He texted someone on his cell phone, then continued walking aimlessly west along the highway. “That’s odd,” I said. “Where did he come from? Where is he going?” There are no sidewalks or walking paths along that stretch of highway … no residences … and the road narrows to a bridge over a lake.  We passed it off and continued our original conversation, then paid for our meal and started home in my car.

Not a mile from the restaurant, we noticed a stopped vehicle on the bridge with its emergency lights flashing. We peered into darkness trying to determine what was happening. Then, in my car’s headlights, we saw a pair of flip flops in the middle of the road … then a crumpled body … and a van just beyond it.

Pull over!” my husband and son yelled at the same time. Both trained firefighter/EMTs, they yelled to me, “Stay by the car. Call 911.”  Then they ran into the darkness, passing the driver of the car who stood--stricken in horror--next to his vehicle, and to the young man who lay severely broken on the pavement.

What happened in that next 10 minutes is something that I think about often.  I called 911 then stayed at the car, crying and shaking—afraid to go look. I did the only thing I could think of to do … the only thing I was capable of doing at that moment … I prayed.

Tom (my husband) and Kyle ran by the driver, giving him an assignment to keep him occupied. (“Did you call 911? Watch for traffic and the squad.”) Then Kyle began CPR on the man and kept it up, despite the man’s critical injuries. With no flares or lights on that dark stretch of highway, Tom held up a lighter and stood out in the road protecting Kyle and the injured man as best he could. The police arrived, followed by the medics—although it was too late.  

Uriel died that night. We learned later that he was an immigrant from Mexico who had too much to drink that evening and, after a series of terrible events, ended up wandering down a highway. He left behind a wife and young children – some 1,400 miles away.

We all asked ourselves if we could’ve done more. After 18 months of reflection, here is my take on it:  I don’t know what God’s plan is, but I have to trust that this was part of it.  As many cars drove by that horrific scene at 60 MPH that dark night, my guys stopped to help. No one else did. Tom still tears up when he talks about how proud he was of Kyle that night – how our 19-year-old took charge of that scene fearlessly and professionally, fighting for that man’s life with everything inside of him. (And Kyle still gets angry when we even hint that we are proud of his actions. “I’m not a hero.”) 

I take a little comfort in knowing that my guys were probably the last people Uriel saw on this earth—and that he left this life knowing that someone cared; that he wasn’t alone. And maybe it’s naïve, but I hope that my prayers helped to summon all of Uriel’s deceased loved ones to meet him as he crossed over. (I know: naïve.)

I pass that spot on the freeway twice a day—and I still pray for Uriel.

There is so much in life that is beyond our control. But those pivotal moments may teach us something about ourselves … like accepting that the power of prayer may reach beyond this life and our understanding. Or they may teach us something we didn’t know about our loved ones …  like the depths of their compassion and selflessness. For that, I’m truly grateful.