That Stunning Moment When the Irreparable Happens.

I am a doer.  I am a fixer.  If something breaks, I figure out how to repair it.  I sew, I glue, I repaint.  If I have a problem, or when something is wrong in my life, I speak up and speak out.  I write letters, I make phone calls.  I can certainly be a pain in the …neck.  When something isn’t ‘right’, then it’s time to roll up my sleeves and fix it.

I am not a victim.  I feel pretty confident that most of my life is under my control or at least within my choice. I do know that God is the ultimate control.  He doesn’t always appreciate my trying to be in the driver’s seat.  I’m working on that.  I’ve come a long way in that department.  I feel, though, that He created me to be a go-getter, a fixer, a doer.  I think He loves me for that.  He and I have an understanding.

When something happens, then, that is unfixable – my mind, heart and being struggle to comprehend it.  In the moment after I break my favorite glass, or ram a pair of scissors into my hand trying to open one of those infernal plastic packages that should be outlawed, I stare at the result and I want the moment before back.  I’d make a different choice and I’d get a better outcome if I just had a do-over.

This week has been brutal for Karl and me.  Our hearts are bleeding and there is nothing I can do to fix, repair, paint, or mend.  This whole week has been that stunning moment after the irreparable happens.  I feel suspended and trapped in that moment.  I want a do-over.

A young woman that we both loved died last Sunday.  We’ve known her since she was seven or eight.  She was our neighbor.  For nearly three years she rode with me into town every morning.  I dropped her off at high school.  Some mornings she’d sleep on the drive.  Sometimes she’d furiously do homework.  Sometimes we’d talk or sing along with the radio. We’d rejoice together at the beauty of sunrises shared. I loved her. For the past seven months she’s worked for Karl at our child care center.  She was, according to him, the best baby room teacher he’d ever had.  He loved her.

I’ve never met anyone as young as she who worked as hard as she did.  I’d pick her up for school at 6:30.  Before she could leave each morning, she had a slew of horses to feed and water.  It didn’t matter if it was still dark, or if the snow was blowing.  In glorious weather or 40 below, she’d be out before school doing chores.  I loved her for that.   I probably will never smell that warm, musty smell of horse and not think of Kiersten. I’ll admit that sometimes I was a bit annoyed that my car smelled of horses after I dropped her off – but now I wish it still did.

One of my favorite evenings ever was a silent, warm summer evening when we lived out in the country.  Kiersten and her mom lived about a quarter of a mile north of us. I was outside enjoying the evening when Kiersten’s angelic voice drifted across the prairie.  She was doing evening chores, singing to the horses as she mucked out their stalls and fed them.  I went and got Karl.  We sat on our porch and enjoyed a concert she had no knowledge she was performing.  I loved her in that moment.

Kiersten rolled her vehicle early last Sunday morning.  The reports say she lost control and over-corrected.  Some guess she was texting.  We know she had a low back tire.  I just want that one moment – that one choice that would have changed the outcome – back.  The moment she decided not to put on her seat belt.  The moment she over-corrected.  The last time I saw her – I’d have hugged her a little longer if I’d have known.