A Light for My Path

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog post titled “It Could Happen Again.” I talked about my fear of losing another child or a grandchild. This fear is always in the back of my mind, no matter how much logic I talk to myself. For example, according to the National Center for Health Statistics, in the United States, the probability of dying before age 18 is around 0.1% (1 person per 1000). There are mitigating factors such as living in a high crime area. But most children grow up and live a normal, healthy life.

By the time the younger of my two daughters was thirty years old, I felt like I could breathe a sigh of relief. Her older sister had been married for several years and was a stay-at-home mom with her four young children. Rachel was past her rebellious adolescent stage, working at a good job in her chosen field, active in her church, and marrying a wonderful man. I was picturing lots of loud, fun family weekends at our house in the country and my husband and I happily collapsing on the porch swing when they all drove off for home.

Then two months after her wedding Rachel died in a car accident on her way to work.

That was eight and a half years ago. I still miss my daughter. I always will. Life has moved on, as it does. We do have loud, fun family weekends at our home in the country. Not as often as I would like, because the grandchildren are growing up, and their weekends are full of sports, dance, cheer, school projects, and part-time jobs. The oldest is a freshman in college and the youngest is almost 10.

They are being raised to be God-loving, honest, hard-working, caring, responsible, and independent. They are allowed to take calculated risks and taught to own up to their mistakes. I admire their abilities and accomplishments. I’m in awe of their intellectual curiosity: in different areas for each of them, but they all have fascinating areas of interest.

I am incredibly proud of them and of their parents.

And I am terrified that “something” might happen to one – or more – of them. I want to put bubble wrap around them. Keep them safely in a museum display where I can admire them, but with a sign that says, “don’t touch.”

This past weekend the oldest granddaughter, who is sixteen, asked if she and her boyfriend could drive over for the day and go with me to a local fall festival. They had permission from both sets of parents. I am always touched when they ask to spend time with me, so of course, I said yes.

It’s about a two-hour drive from Jacksonville to our little country town, half of it interstate and half country roads. What should I worry about more, deer or semis? I worried and prayed about both, as well as distracted teenagers, the whole total four hours they were on the road.

In between we had a lovely, fun time.

Would I still worry and fret about teenagers on the road if I hadn’t lost my daughter. Yes, I would. That’s all part of being a parent or grandparent. But I did not have the same kind of stomach-knotting fear over things like unanswered phone calls, late arrivals, sports injuries, or angry words before Rachel died. I know I overreact. I know it’s illogical. I try to keep it inside me.

Then I’m reminded. I don’t have to hold on to it – the fear, the worry. God will take it. I can give it up to Him. He’s the one who has it anyway. He always has and He always will. All I’ve got to do is loosen my grip.

Now isn’t that logical?

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Laura