And then "BAM!"

Today was an average, ordinary day. I went to the office, did my usual work, and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home when, four blocks from the church, WHAM! As I was stopped, waiting at the end of a line of cars turning left, I was rear-ended. The man in the car behind me was distracted, looking at his GPS, and he didn't see my brake lights ahead of him. So, instead of getting home before six, throwing together some dinner, and rearranging the furniture so I could put up the Christmas tree, I spent an hour by the side of the road filling out forms, talking to police officers, and answering questions in the back of an ambulance.

It was a totally new experience for me. I mean, sure, I've been in car accidents before, but this time: a) it was on a major road, b) there were more than two cars involved, and c) the police and EMS were called. So it was thoroughly surreal to stand in the cold on the side of the road, surrounded by flashing red-and-blues and rubberneckers. On one hand, it was a little scary and painful, and it's frustrating and inconvenient. On the other hand, I don't seem to be injured besides some whiplash and my car is drivable and (thanks to insurance) will get fixed.

But the whole thing seemed ironic since I'd just written on my blog yesterday about how so much of what shapes us is so gradual and imperceptible that we don't even recognize its effects until much later. This was definitely not one of those things. While I'm sure its ripples will be less obvious and I may not recognize them for a long time, the accident was an obviously big event, with immediate consequences. (Hello, aching back!)

Now, I could talk about the distractions in our lives, or how we miss important things approaching until they hit us, or the way God sometimes appears in big momentous ways. But instead, this evening, I'm thinking about Charlie. Sort of, anyway.

I arrived home this evening an hour later than I expected, hungry and shaken and sore, and there was Charlie. After a day in his crate, Charlie was hyper. He wanted to run around and play with me. I was in pain and didn't want to move or throw a ball, or have a dog jump on me, but there's really no way of explaining that to a puppy, especially when you don't look any different.

I think often in life the people we see, even the people we know well and love, are walking around in pain. Whether it's because of a loss or difficulty, because they're lonely, hurt, or sad, they're not quite whole. They don't feel up to playing, and small things set them off because there's already so much wearing on their hearts and minds. And there I am, like Charlie, trying to get them to engage or play or act according to my wishes. It's a selfishness bred of obliviousness, but it's where I usually live. The playfulness is fun, but it can come at a cost to myself and others.

I hope that the puppy-ish playfulness comes with the other of Charlie's great strengths: loving. Once he calmed down, Charlie settled in next to me on the couch with his head flopped across my lap. He didn't ask for or expect anything, he just cuddled in beside me as a warm, quite presence. I hope that, once I get past my obliviousness, I can also be that loving. I hope that, once I recognize someone's pain or need, I can sit with them in it. I pray that I can offer them what several of my friends and family members offered me today after the accident: reassurances, offers of care, and willingness to listen. In short, love in practice. It's a gift for which I'm profoundly thankful, and a gift which I hope to share with others.