It was a gray, overcast morning in the low thirties, with a sporadic light sprinkling of rain. But nothing that would make me think my drive would be eventful, so I got Ash and me dressed, and we headed to church.
My church is somewhat of a hike from my house. It’s a little over forty miles away, but a straight shot down I-94. As I made my way up the Van Dyke exit off the freeway, I felt a gratefulness for the modest weather and uneventful travels and internally thanked the Lord for such. After church, we made our way to my parents’ house (per Asher’s request to go to “Granny’s house”).
I pulled into the driveway and parked next to my dad’s black pickup truck. I heard my phone vibrating in my purse while I was unbuckling Ash out of his car seat. It was Brian. I answered but quickly said, “I’ll call you back…” But I got preoccupied with my visit. About an hour later, Brian called me again. That’s when I found out about Kobe Bryant. My sister called me sometime after this and told me the devastating news included his thirteen-year-old daughter Gianna.
You are never really expecting to hear things like this. As I write this, my stomach is somewhat uneasy, and my heart has a vague anxious ache. I’ve never met Kobe or Gianna or any of his beautiful family. I’m not even a basketball fanatic. But that doesn’t have to be to put me here again. I am reminded of how fragile and fleeting life is, where I am hit in the face with all the things I currently have undone, and where I can see the impact of living in excellence. I sat there with my mom and dad, talking about the weight of it all.
Before Ash and mainly after I lost Ethan, I had an indifference about dying. I didn’t want to die, but I had no angst about it happening. Becoming a mother changed everything about that. The thought of my son growing up without his mother makes me unable to swallow.
I sat there with my mom and dad, and those quintessential questions came up. How is God choosing who leaves us? And why is it always seemingly the ones we love dearly and not the ones we feel we could do without? I sat there with my mom and dad, glad that I had stopped by to visit, happy that we were able to spend some time together because the conversations, the laughter, are but a vapor.
As I pulled out of my parent’s driveway and headed home, I called Brian. We talked about Asher’s visit with Granny and Papa. We talked about how we both have found ourselves more consciously grateful for uneventful travel lately. I told him about my recall of gratefulness as I pulled off from my hike down I-94 onto the Van Dyke exit this morning. He told me about his gratefulness for even just safe local driving. Days like today make you all the more aware of how much of a blessing it all is.
I hung up the phone and thought about Kobe’s wife and how I couldn’t even fathom being in her shoes today. I thought about how, just a few weeks ago, like the rest of us, she was probably welcoming this new decade with freshness and high hopes. Today, twenty-six days in, she has lost her husband and child. Her thoughts right now, the way the world looks to her right now, the emotional currents running through her mind and heart right now—I can’t even fathom…
As we grow older, we become increasingly aware of our mortality. Days like today though, shake us. They are humbling reminders that the how or when is unknowing. They jar us out of monotony and disturb the pits of our stomachs. We start sharing the same message we’ve all heard a million times but still eventually succumb to complacency about—the golden opportunity of life.
It was a gray, overcast morning in the low thirties, with a sporadic light sprinkling of rain. But nothing that would make me think my drive would be eventful. And here I am, back home. Sitting on my couch, breathing. My husband is sitting next to me, scrolling his phone. My son is asleep upstairs — a miracle. Days like today remind us how fragile and fleeting life is; all else fades into the background.
RIP to all of the passengers aboard… God, please be with their families.
