These Lights We Kindle

By Alan D. Busch

    
I was at work when the call came in. 

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired in a tone that made me tremble.

“Please God. No! This can’t be happening,” I silently pled

recalling a similar call from several years before when my son Ben died in a traffic

accident. “Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “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 an hour south of Chicago at mile marker 80'.

Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she isn't hurt, not a scratch." “Kimmy

in an accident! Not hurt! Thank God!”

“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.”

Two hours earlier Ann pulled off the interstate to help out

after she had witnessed a collision on her way to Chicago.

That is how she ran across my daughter Kimberly whom, we later learned, had

lost control of her steering wheel while trying to pass a truck when its driver

unexpectedly shifted into the passing lane. She was forced onto the shoulder and

across the grassy median into oncoming traffic whereupon she struck a van. “Listen

Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much your

news means to me.” I immediately called Kimberly’s mother.  “Jan, hi. It’s Alan.

Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I said with as much

calm as I could feign. “What is it?” she asked haltingly. “Kimmy’s been in an

accident, but she’s fine, completely

unhurt,” I hastened to emphasize. “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. I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said,

gathering my things and running out. 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.

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 in the driver’s seat and put both

hands on the steering wheel. I slumped down, nearly in tears, gaping

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. For her, the moment was something from which she wanted

to flee. For me it was the scene of the reenactment of my son Ben’s fatal

injuries in a car crash several years before.  I “saw” Ben’s unresponsive body

lying atop the surgical table. “Yes sweety,” 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. Kimmy was

understandably skittish, gasping every time I braked or switched lanes.

“Kimushkele?” I asked. “Are you okay?” “Yes, Dad. Just beat.” I dropped her off at

her mom’s house. 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 can’t answer that question any better now than I could

before when I wondered why Ben had not been. The following Friday, Kimmy

came over for dinner. My younger son Zac was there too as was my fiance.  A

beautifully set table awaited us, its candles aglow for each of my three

children. We gathered around the table. “Kimushkele,” 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. I am so thankful to have you by my side.”  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. As I chanted the blessing over the wine, I thought back to

that day when I had sat in the driver’s seat of my daughter’s car and realized

that a great miracle had happened there.