The Hurt and the Healing
Ten months.
That’s how long it’s been since Luke’s car accident. This past Saturday marked ten months, and I still don’t know how long it will take for the 21st of every month to stop dragging me back—to that moment, that road, that blur of flashing lights and shouted directions. To the sound of Chapman’s shoeless feet pounding the asphalt as first responders held him back from reaching his brother, still trapped inside his 4Runner.
For thirty minutes, all we were told was that Luke was alive.
That’s it. Just alive.
I remember waves of emotion crashing over me—then numbness. Moments of calm punctuated by sheer panic. My body remembering what my brain was trying to block out.
In therapy, I’m learning how trauma lingers. How it lives in the body. How it doesn’t ask permission before it rises to the surface. And for people like me—who watched their child survive a wreck no one thought he’d live through, then nearly lose him again to infections, then witness him relearn how to walk, talk, eat, exist—healing looks like this: remembering. Processing. Honoring what comes up.
Just this week, I drove down the same two-lane road where Luke’s accident happened. It’s a mile from our house. To avoid it, I’d have to go 30 minutes out of my way every day. So that road has become… normal. As strange as it sounds, I’ve gotten used to passing the tree he hit—still laying on its side.
But on this particular day, I crested the hill—the same one we ran down to reach him—and I saw flashing lights again. Crews were clearing a fallen tree. That’s all it was. But my body didn’t know that.
In an instant, I was back there. Panic in my throat. Chapman’s feet slapping the pavement. The air too thick to breathe.
And here I am, five days later, still thinking about it.
Ten months. It sounds like a long time. But it still feels like yesterday.
Some days, I carry the weight of it all like an invisible boulder strapped to my back. My patience wears thin. My empathy runs dry. I toss and turn at night, haunted by what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I know this is part of the healing. I know I’m still recovering.
I just thought I’d be farther along by now.
But healing isn’t linear. It isn’t tidy.
It’s messy and tender and often painfully slow.
It looks like releasing expectations. Accepting what is. Riding the waves. Showing up anyway.
I don’t know what healing is supposed to look like after something like this. But I know I’m learning to breathe through the moments I used to hold my breath. To let the tears come. To speak the story out loud. And to trust that in doing so, I’m making space for others to do the same.
So if you ever find yourself holding your breath at the top of a hill, bracing for impact from something that isn’t even there anymore—just know you’re not alone. Healing is not about getting over it. It’s about learning to live with it. And maybe, just maybe, to keep walking anyway.
Shine on,
A Prayer for the Hurt and the Healing
Merciful God, steady refuge for the weary:
Be near to those of us still learning how to carry what we’ve lived through. Let your peace settle in the places where panic rises. Let your light break through the memories that still haunt us.
Remind us that healing is not a race but a return—again and again—to your presence.
Strengthen our hearts for the journey ahead, and anchor us in your unfailing love.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
