A father recalls the near loss of his daughter Do you have one of those special photos? You know … the one with you and your five-year old daughter doing the dishes together, at a time when she wore her hair braided in pigtails and Strawberry Shortcake was her favorite doll? I do. As parents, we worry each day when our children leave for school or work, and we pray we’ll see them later that day safely coming through the door. But as soon as they leave our protective embrace, we rely upon our faith to strengthen and enable us to cope with the uncertainties of this world by first acknowledging that He alone governs it.             I was at work when the call came in. “Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice asked. There was something about her business like tone that sounded frighteningly familiar. I began to tremble.   “Please God. No! This can’t be happening.”  It was horrifyingly reminiscent of the call I had received several years before from an emergency room doctor the day my son Ben was killed in a traffic accident.  “Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I replied, wishing I were not. “My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,” she said calmly. “Kimberly! Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I nearly   panicked. “Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south of Chicago at mile marker “80”. Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she is unhurt, not a scratch. “Kimmy, in an accident! Unhurt! Thank God!” My heart was racing, my hands and legs trembling and my eyes felt like they were going to burst out of my head. “Yes, that’s right. She’s fine. I’ve already left the scene, but I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police arrived.” Only two hours earlier Ann pulled off the interstate to help out after witnessing a collision on her way to Chicago. That is how and when she ran across my daughter Kimberly who had been forced onto the shoulder while passing an eighteen-wheeler. She lost control of her steering wheel when the trucker unexpectedly shifted into the passing lane. Kimberly struck a van headed in the opposite direction after crossing the grassy median strip. My head was pounding violently. Flashbacks of my son Ben’s fatal accident several years before kept on flashing before my mind’s eye even though Ann had reassured me of Kimmy’s safety. “Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much your good news means to me. Really and truIy. I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to get Ann’s number. I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Jan, hi. It’s Alan. Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I stressed. “What is it?” she asked haltingly. “Jan, Kimmy’s been in an accident, but she’s fine, completely unhurt,”  I hastened to reassure her. “Kimmy, what? An accident? No, not Kimmy!” she cried out, her voice choked with emotion. “Listen Hon,” I interrupted, addressing her with an old term of endearment. “Kimberly is safe and unhurt. She’ll tell you everything later. Listen I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said, gathering my things, ready to run out. I looked at the clock. Already after 3:00 and with barely the time and breath to inform my co-workers about what had happened, I sped away. Although I knew Kimmy had not been injured, I couldn’t help but call the Illinois state trooper’s cell phone Ann had given me. I guess I could not be reassured enough. I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed her car. She was anxious to leave immediately, but I needed a few minutes to wrap my head around this.  I walked over to Kimmy’s car. Would you believe me if I told you that the entire front end looked like an accordion? The collision crushed the front end of the car within several inches of the dashboard. I grasped hold of the driver’s side door. To my amazement, it opened cleanly. I sat down, putting both hands on the steering wheel. I slumped down in the driver’s seat dumbfounded, nearly in tears, gapping incredulously at what could well have been the place where my daughter might have died that day. “Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked with the slightest bit of impatience. The moment was for her one from which she wanted to flee. For me it was the scene of the reenactment of my son Ben’s death in a traffic mishap several years before. “Yes Love,” I replied, struggling as best I could to avoid an emotional breakdown in front of my daughter. I was quite simply overwhelmed. We drove home mostly in silence. Understandably, Kimmy was skittish, jumpy. She gasped every time I braked or switched lanes. Who knows how many times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our way home. “Kimushkele?” I asked. “Are you okay?” “Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered. I dropped her off at her mom’s house. Our time together was over for the day. I wanted to have more time with her, but I knew her mom anxiously awaited her arrival. My heart sank but here she was … safe and sound. Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t know more now than I did before when I wondered about why Ben had not been. The following Friday, I invited Kimmy over for dinner on Erev Shabbos. Zac was there too as was my fiancé. A beautifully set table awaited us. Its Shabbos candles were aglow for each of my three children. We gathered around the table. “Kimuschkele,” I turned to my daughter, my voice cracking as I tried to articulate the words of a short speech. “Yes Dad,” she responded laughingly while drying a few tears. “This Shabbat is extra special. We say ‘Hodu la HaShem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’-Praise Hashem because He is good, His kindness is eternal” because of all nights, I am thankful to have you by my side especially tonight.”  I lifted the kiddush cup. A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a moment pass during which not a peep was uttered. Ben’s candles seemed to flicker more brightly at that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my hand. “Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.      Alan D. Busch