One Block From Home

Just over two years ago, my dad was killed in a tragic accident. The news is never easy to take, regardless of the circumstances…and it’s an even harder thing to wrap your heart around when it comes from out of no where, unexpectedly altering life as you’ve always known it.

It’s the weirdest feeling…that initial mourning that doubles you over in grief, and the numbness that follows. It’s as if you’re invisible and everything around you is moving in slow motion. At some point when crises arise, I always seem to move into survivor mode, orchestrating events and details, serving as the sounding board…the shoulder to cry on…the strength that holds together and supports. The down-side to this kind of inner wiring is that I know full well that sometime after the chaos ensues, I will have my own personal reckoning with those things that I filed into the “I’ll deal with that when I have the capacity” drawer. Sometime after the duties have been handled and friends and family have been consoled, I’ll open up that drawer and allow my heart to rifle through the memories and stories and details…feeling the painful gravity of each and every one.

So it was with the death of my dad. Most of that week shared with my family in the aftermath of the terrible news is but a hazy blur in my memory. But true to form, once my husband and I arrived back home, the floodgates opened up and it all came rushing back as if it had all just happened…as if I was still back in my hometown hearing the sordid details for the first time. I was told way too much…too much for a heart like mine, anyway. And even now, though I’ve processed my way through the grief and loss, there are images that remain that I just can’t seem to shake. I won’t share most of them with you, they’re just too horrific. But there is one haunting thought that hangs on me that’s worth sharing.

You see, the story goes like this: My dad was simply on his nightly walk. He’s taken that nightly walk since I was just a wee kid. He chose the nighttime because it was cooler in the summer…allowing him to maintain a year-round schedule. He would mark out the mileage of different routes, and change them up every so often for interest, but for the most part he was a creature of habit and would walk the same route for months at a time. It became a well-known mainstay in town that night after night around 10 pm, you could see my dad walking through the surrounding neighborhoods and industrial areas adjacent to where he lived.

I’ve often wondered if he felt something different hanging in the air that night as he bent over to lace up his sneakers…if he sensed anything unusual or off center as he walked down his front steps into the darkness of night…if he wrestled within himself about even taking his walk that night. Or whether it was just another night like every other night before, routine in nature…not even registering on the radar of unusual. So we’re told, like clockwork he rounded the last corner at around 10:25, probably feeling the refreshing that comes from knowing he was well within reach of his goal. I can only imagine that his step quickened as one more block was conquered, one more marker was passed. He’d made this trip thousands of times before, and if I’m anything at all like him, it was his favorite part of the journey. The home stretch before him…steps and heart feeling a bit lighter because of the worries and cares that had been lain down on the miles that trailed behind.

One block from home, and the sweetness of victory laced his lips where the saltiness of sweat used to be. One block from home, and the street where he lived was in full view, and home was just within sight. One block from home, and perhaps in his mind he was already making his way back up the front steps, in through the front door and into the glow of his living room, where all of his familiar things would greet him. It’s such a haunting thought, isn’t it: he was just one block from home when his life ended. He had almost made it. He was almost there…wrapped in the arms of safety once again. He had almost found his way back home…almost.

But speculation has it that as he emerged from the thick darkness that had been such a comfort and ally to him over the years past, his vision was distorted by the bright lights that filled the intersection, and he walked directly into the path of an oncoming car. A car that had just been bombed with an onslaught of water balloons…water balloons thrown by some kids just having a bit of reckless fun. No one is really to blame, in the end. No one bears the full weight of responsibility. Yet each and every party involved was connected to a series of events that would change all of their lives forever.

Although the story is sad, at best…and really quite tragic, there is always a lesson to be learned from the ones who go before us. And what echoes in my heart is this: Beware of the bright lights of change that can blind you to oncoming traffic and rob you of the goal that’s just within your reach. In stepping out of the comfortable and the familiar, shake off the lethargy of the routine. Anticipate the change…prepare yourself for the emotional distortion that it can bring. Walk in complete awareness of the things that move around you…especially the ones that have the power to “take you out”. Maneuver your way safely around the obstacles in your way…and never lose sight of your destination. You’ve put in the hard work, you’ve invested the “sweat equity”, you’ve silenced the inner voices that plead with you to quit, and you’ve rounded that last corner.

So whatever your dream is…whatever purpose your life is meant to serve…whatever your unique vision or ultimate life goal might be, don’t let yourself be taken out…especially when many of you are only one block from home.