The last time, the last word

 Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about last times. Not the last times in the biblical sense, but as in the last time you say, see or do something. Do you ever reflect on the last time you spoke to someone who has died? What did you or they say?

Do you recall the last time you left a place important to you, like a childhood home, favorite vacation spot, a school, a church, or even a former place of employment? A lot of times you will do something or see someone for the last time and never know it. I have four adult children, but I cannot recall the last time I changed a diaper, which I would have considered a monumental occasion.

Since Feb. 1, I have lived and worked 250 miles away from my family back in the Houston area, eagerly awaiting the time my wife, Sandy, lands a job here and they can follow me to God’s country. I see them on average about three weekends a month. Every time we part, I am very careful to make my last words to them “I love you.” It’s important to me.

In 2014, my mother rested in the hospital bed where she would spend the final days of her life. The last words she audibly spoke to me — choked out past the breathing and feeding tubes in her throat — was a hoarsely whispered, “I love you.” I treasure the words and the memory deeply.

I was solemnly reminded of the importance of final words on July 24 when Sandy and I came upon the double-fatal crash on Highway 16 South. We were just seconds behind the van that was hit head-on by a pickup truck. When we arrived on the scene, we were unaware that it had just happened. Instinctively, I looked for a route around the wreck and was wondering why law enforcement wasn’t directing traffic. Then it struck us that law enforcement and emergency crews had not arrived yet.

We got out of our car and asked the other bystanders if we could help. The few that were there had stunned looks and a couple of them said they had just called 911. Just then we realized there were babies crying in the back of the van. I went over to the driver’s side door, which was slightly ajar, and pulled it open as far as I could, which was just a few inches. I looked in and saw a man sitting there and I asked if he was OK.

The man didn’t answer. He slowly turned his bloodied face toward me, his eyes in a fixed stare in the distance. That’s when I noticed his broken and mangled arms and hands. There were curtains of deflated air bags everywhere and it was hard to see much else. My wife and another person took over while I checked the other doors and windows. They were all locked, except for a single window in back that was blown out. I looked inside and could see the backs of two child car seats and the tops of heads.

I next checked the truck. It was crunched really bad and all I could see of the driver was the top of his head in the lower front corner of the driver’s side window. I didn’t have to look any closer to know he was dead. I looked for a passenger and couldn’t see one. By then, emergency crews arrived and the professionals took over.

Sandy and I watched and waited for the better part of an hour while the two toddlers were extricated through the back window of the van. The jaws of life had to be used to get the driver out. We knew there was a front passenger and presumed she was dead since no one was trying to help her.

That scene has haunted us for a while now. I know it has to haunt the police, fire and EMS crews who responded. I developed very deep appreciation for those men and women on the spot as we watched them work.

I couldn’t help but think about how so many lives changed in an instant that evening. The father was no longer a husband. Two young children are now motherless. The father’s body was badly broken and he is sure to spend months in the hospital and in therapy. He is undoubtedly in more physical, mental, and emotional pain than I can fathom. His children will have their own injuries to cope with, but are young enough that they will probably grow up with no memories of the crash or, unfortunately, of their mother. The more I thought about it, the more my heart ached.

Everything happened so instantaneously that there were probably no goodbyes or final words. For the families affected by the crash there will now be new beginnings, fresh starts without a loved one. Each painful day from now on will be a gift and a reminder of how short and precious life is.

In this world where there is so much hatred and social media vitriol, I want this to serve as a reminder to be kind, be loving, and to let your words be uplifting or beneficial. Perhaps if we took that mindset into all of our relationships and personal interactions, this world would be a much better place. At least that’s a hope to hold onto.