Originally published September 6, 2015
We live on a mountain road, a windy, twisty, switchback road that is actually a 2-lane highway that serves as a thoroughfare between several small towns and access to the interstate thats leads to Nashville to the west and Chattanooga to the east. There is an earth-mining facility at the top of the mountain that sends dump trucks by daily; Shaw Flooring in Winchester provides a steady stream of 18-wheelers; and a logging operation somewhere regularly sends the slowest of lumber-laid trucks around these curves. And then there are the cars going to school, contractors going to a job, workers going to work, tourists on a joy ride, motorcyclists on the weekends, and even cyclists struggling up or flying down the curves. In six miles, those cars and trucks climb - or descend - almost 1000 feet. So they're either going really slow, or pretty fast, careening confidently around curves they must often take. There's a lot of activity on this road, activity you wouldn't be aware of unless you sat here 8 hours a day and watched it go by like I do. And although we're in the middle of a fairly busy traffic pattern, we are still one of three (only two are occupied) homes between the valley and the University. Which means we're pretty rural. We have to have satellite internet because the big boys can't get their signals here, and we have to have well water, because the pipes don't come this far down the mountain. Luckily, we do get electricity. Really, I do appreciate that! We're rural, yet experience a constant stream of traffic daily. On Friday night, I heard the dreaded sound of traffic I imagined we would eventually hear: the squeal of tires and thud of metal meeting tree. I knew it was bound to happen. I hear tires squeal every day on the curve right before our house, on the downward lane. It's a two switchback segment that probably takes some by surprise. Pay attention, though, people, and the signs will alert you.
Left, this is actually right in front of our house. The road is littered with them, though. Ample notice, people!
But this squeal was louder than I've ever heard before in my whole four weeks of living here. It was 11 p.m., we had just gone to sleep. I hear the squeal, which was punctuated by the sound of metal hitting a tree. I can't say I've ever heard that noise before, but do you have to hear it to know what it is?
I looked out our bedroom window, and sure enough, I could see an interior light of a car. I couldn't tell which side of the road it was on, but it was close. Michael got up groggily, and we wondered around in the dark for a minute, trying to decide what to do, continuing to check out the window to make sure we were seeing what we thought we were.
I knew this was coming, but I wasn't ready for this.
"Be you therefore ready also: for the Son of man comes at an hour when you think not." Luke 12:40.
11 p.m. on a Friday night, after high school football, or the end of your shift at Sonic, seems like about the right time to be driving too fast. I'd heard the squeal of tires before. Our realtor had expressed concern, and we have even talked about the trajectory of cars coming down the road, and the likelihood of their hitting - or not - our house. I knew this was bound to happen.
And frankly, the 911 operator didn't seem surprised.
Michael got dressed, and I dialed 911. We went outside and yelled to see if they were ok, as Michael started heading up the street, in the pitch black dark, on a switchback road, to the scene of an accident.
The 911 operator knew exactly where we were, and said he would send someone, but told me to call him back if they leave.
This might happen often.
I worried, of course, that they were drunk, and didn't want our help, and were in fact carrying moonshine and so now they would have to kill Michael with a shot gun and they would have to make him a saint so now the School of Theology could just pilgrimage to our house to review the dangerous life of a seminarian at the beginning of every year.
That's how my mind works, friends.
But the two young men were fine, just driving too fast as young men do, and probably over corrected on the second turn. Cars continued to pass, and several stopped to see if they needed help. Michael said they talked about how nice it was to be in a place (the South) where people stopped to check on you. Yankees, they supposed, certainly would not do that.
The police and a tow truck arrived in about 15 minutes, no one too surprised by the turn of events, according to Michael. "Be you therefore ready also: for the Son of man comes at an hour when you think not." Luke 12:40.
When Michael returned to the house, we talked about being ready for the next time. We were lucky this time. No one was hurt. He should take a tourniquet. He should take a first aid kit. He should have a flashlight instead of the flashlight app.
Anywhere is dangerous these days. Sitting in church Bible study is dangerous. Living on a busy mountain road is dangerous. But we can't live in fear, and we don't have to, if we're ready. If we're ready to go at any moment. That's both a scary and a comforting thought, being ready, yet knowing there is a tomorrow for most of us. But if there's not, I know where I'll be. Cause I'm ready.
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