It's Just Different
Yesterday on the way home from work, I pulled up beside a very sexy man. We were obviously taking the same route to our destination. I flashed a grin as I passed him on the left.
Just ahead, we both saw it. The ambulance, the damaged car on the side of the road, people gathered around, someone sitting on the curb. We slowed down and both prayed, I’m sure, for everyone involved.
I passed the accident and pulled into the parking lot of RSM lake where I was planning to go for a run. I immediately grabbed my phone and texted the sexy man.
“I hate seeing that.”
The sexy man who approached the accident the same time that I did has a decal on the back of his car just like mine -- a silhouette of Chandler getting air on his bike. He hates seeing the flashing lights and the somber scene as much as I do. We have different details coloring our thoughts, but in the end, we both remember that our son was at the center of that scene on December 15.
I know it is supposed to get easier. In some ways it does. And in other ways, it’s more difficult. The best word I can use to describe it is “different.” It’s like comparing the pain you experience when you first burn yourself on the stove to the pain that comes later when the blister pops exposing raw tissue underneath. They both hurt. It’s just different.
I’ve always prayed when I approached the scene of an accident. I still pray.
It’s just different.