Speaking of Storms

Four birds sat in a tree. Three of them decided to fly. How many were left in the tree? (A small math problem taken from a Lebanese friend’s fb page this morning.)

But you wanted to hear about that storm in Texas.

It was 1985. Our friend Maria Daoud had come home with us from Lebanon. Eager for her to see as much of America as possible and to share her with our friends, Wayne and I took her on a big road trip across the country, east to west and back again.  On the way back we stopped at Carlsbad and toured that underground marvel, and when we got into our car again in the parking lot, we learned that there was a storm coming, a very cold storm. It was behind us, traveling the same route.

I don’t know what we could have done except what we did, but Wayne had made a plan, and Wayne’s travel plans were always sharply focused on arrival.  We were supposed to make it to eastern Oklahoma by bedtime. We decided to try and outrun the storm.

The next thing I remember is the cold rain overtaking us, an icy rain, hitting the windshield noisily.  And unfortunately, it was my turn to drive, with Maria beside me and Wayne snoozing in the back seat. I hate driving in rain and think I am not good at it, but it was too late to even think about changing drivers.

It was the kind of rain that makes you slow up so much that you fear someone will hit you from the rear. I lost sight of lines in the pavement and the edge of the road. It got very dark, and the headlights didn’t help.

Then, before we quite understood what was happening, the freezing downpour passed us by, leaving behind a four-lane freeway that was one long ice rink. I felt the car become not totally responsive to my will. A vehicle in front of us fish-tailed but recovered. Another slid off onto the shoulder. A third crashed into a guard rail.

The Minnesotan in the back seat woke up and began to coach me quietly, encouraging this Southerner home from the Middle East, that she could drive on ice. “Touch the brake gently. No quick moves.”

The overpasses were the most hazardous, each like a trip through a horror house. A big-rig jackknifed in the approaching lanes, the second trailer tipping precariously, then the whole thing falling over. Behind it, cars were sliding sideways, ricocheting and colliding, like bumper cars. There were sirens and flashing lights.

W talked about getting off at the next exit, but I couldn’t maneuver into position, nor convince myself that I could negotiate the curving ramp. Then there was one that seemed easier, lights beckoned, I got a little courage, and it took us down to the front of a small motel with a fast food place on the other side of the parking lot. Overwhelmed by relief, I needed to just sit there and breathe.

The next thing I remember, we were in the motel office, with a lot of other people, all looking for a place to spend the night. Wayne was at the desk, and I was at the back of the crowd, near the door, which suddenly burst open, bringing a blast of cold air and a young man who walked straight to me and blurted, “This is the first day of the rest of my life!”

I suppose I looked startled, because then he explained, “I thought I was going die out there, and I promised God that if I lived, I would be a good boy from now on.”

I don’t remember what I answered. I hope I said something sympathetic or encouraging. I should have said that it was wise of him to tell someone right away, though I don’t think he even meant to speak. His words were just so sincere, they were unstoppable.

I wish this were the end of my story.

Wayne got us a room, just one with two big beds. We got the suitcases inside and did little things to push our reset buttons, deciding that we were hungry. Then, on the way to the restaurant across the way, I stepped off the curb onto invisible ice and came down on my tailbone.

Wayne and Maria got me upright; I declared that I was fine, actually believing it, and we went for a hamburger.

By the time we went to bed I was hurting. Halfway through the night, a stiffness was taking over. In the morning I needed help to get out of bed. For weeks afterward I walked like a very old, arthritic woman. A trip to a doctor didn’t really help. I took painkillers. I began to notice how much time I usually spent sitting on the end of my spine. It was torture.  I looked at all chairs suspiciously and learned to carry an appropriate pillow everywhere I went.

Eventually, I was back in Lebanon, still hurting from getting injured in America. I hope you believe me when I say that my tailbone hurt for a year.

The day that I stepped off the curb onto that ice was a significant first day of the rest of my life, though I didn’t note it at the time. Ever since I have had a healthy respect for slippery places. I pay attention. No way am I walking on a wet tile floor. The whole thing is proof that I am teachable and, though I hate to admit it, a storm can be useful.

Life gives us a lot of unforgettable moments good and bad in which, if we are aware, we might say, “This is the first day. . .”

Truly, it is not so much the happening as the decision that makes it the day our life changed. Often, as for the stranger in Texas, the event has triggered regret for past behavior and failure has motivated our resolve.

Numerous times through the years I have thought of that young man in Dallas and prayed that he was keeping his promise to God.  I thought of him when I read about this year’s storm in Texas. I think of him now in relation to the perfect storm of the covid pandemic. We have all hurt. We have all lost something and made lists of things we mean to do when it is over, all the lovely things we think we would have done, if only. We have now beautiful intentions.

This brings us back to the birds in the tree. In the fictional classroom in which the teacher posed the problem, every child but one knew immediately that the answer was one, one bird left in the tree. That slower child was thinking, The problem didn’t say three birds flew. It just said three birds decided to fly. It’s possible that there are still four birds in the tree.”

Because the pandemic will end slowly, a step at a time, there is the danger that some of us will have no “ah ha!” moment.  We will not sense the beginning of something new, another chance to appreciate what we have, to gather up what we have learned and implement our resolves. When we are not scared anymore, maybe we will laugh about our enthusiasm to live mightily and love outrageously.

You know how it is. After sitting so long, it is hard to start moving.

Some bird might just sit in the tree.

I hope it won’t be me.