When the World Falls Apart: What Love Looks Like in a Crisis
In the immediate aftermath of Luke’s car accident, the world around me felt like chaos. I stood on the side of the road, just yards from the mangled remains of my son’s 4Runner, frozen in place — helpless, afraid, and overwhelmed by a blur of fear and urgency. It would take days for the adrenaline and shock to wear off, leaving in their place a gaping void of uncertainty and unknowing.
Even now, I can still feel those moments in my body. The tightness in my chest as Chapman and I followed Luke’s phone location, already sensing we were about to witness something awful. The sound of our feet running down the pavement, past a half mile of backed-up traffic, to the mangled wreck of my son’s car hanging in the trees. The mental frenzy as my brain pinged between our family photo session scheduled for that evening and Chapman’s college move-in day just hours away. The phone call I made to my dad as I watched paramedics and firemen race toward Luke’s car, their movements urgent and relentless. Sitting in the backseat of Luke’s dad’s truck, silently begging God during the 45-minute drive that He would keep Luke alive long enough to reach the trauma center. And then, seeing Luke for the first time — barely recognizable beneath tubes and wires, his head and face marked by severe trauma.
Nothing prepares you for moments like these — when you are forced to look death in the face and somehow keep moving. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I couldn’t have done any of it, or cared for Luke in the way I needed to, without the unwavering presence of my people. They carried me so I could carry him.
The One Who Took the First Call
The first call I made, as I stood watching EMS and fire crews work to save Luke’s life, was to my dad. I knew he’d answer. I knew he’d circle the wagons. I knew he’d be my steady calm in the chaos. And true to the way he’s shown up for me for over forty years, he was all of that — and so much more — throughout Luke’s hospitalization and recovery.
While I waited on word from first responders at the scene, Daddy was already moving into action. He informed our immediate and extended family. He canceled Luke’s senior picture appointment at my request. He picked up Luke’s girlfriend, Hannah, and drove with my mom into downtown Memphis, where Luke was being airlifted.
His arms were the first I fell into when I walked into the hospital waiting area, and I’ll never forget his words: “Yes, honey. Just cry it out. This is so hard. It’s okay to cry.” In the days and weeks that followed, he texted every morning to ask what I needed before making the drive to the hospital. He brought our family’s favorite drinks and snacks to the cafeteria table we turned into our home base. He gently encouraged me to rest — and just as gently understood when I couldn’t. He carried emotional and logistical burdens I couldn’t begin to shoulder, rallying hundreds of people to support us. He coordinated offers of financial help, helped organize meals, and served as my sounding board when I needed space to process the unthinkable.
He didn’t try to fix what was broken. He simply stayed close, helping hold what was too heavy for me to carry alone. And right by his side were my mom, my sisters, and my husband — ready to bring their unique gifts to our family’s greatest challenge.
The Ones Who Dropped Everything
My sisters, Meredith and Kaitlin, arrived at the hospital within hours of Luke’s accident — one from Tupelo, the other from Nashville. They dropped everything and drove straight to Memphis the moment they got the call. No one had to ask. They just came.
From the moment they walked into the waiting room, they stepped into the gaps I couldn’t name but desperately needed filled. They arranged hotel and Airbnb accommodations so that when I was ready to sleep, I’d have a place to rest that felt more like home. They took turns sitting with me, managing Luke’s care so I could take a break, and talking me through medical updates when my brain couldn’t hold one more word. They organized fundraisers and events to rally our community across the world around us. They didn’t try to cheer me up. They didn’t pretend to have answers. They simply stayed — grounded, present, steady.
Each of them brought something different into that space: Kaitlin’s calm clarity, Meredith’s fierce protectiveness. Together, they encouraged me to eat, reminded me to rest when my body started to crash, and shielded me from hard conversations I didn’t have the capacity to manage. When someone needed to update extended family or coordinate things back home, they handled it. When I needed to scream, or sob, or sit in silence, they stayed close.
Those twenty-one days at the trauma center were the hardest of my life. And yet, I never felt alone. My sisters didn’t carry me out of the fire — they walked in and stood beside me until the smoke began to clear.
The One Who Tended the Edges
My mom has always had the quiet gift of tending to the unseen — noticing needs before they’re spoken, meeting them before they become burdens. In the days following Luke’s accident, that gift became one of the greatest sources of strength and comfort in my life.
She arrived at the hospital with my dad and Hannah, stepping into crisis mode with a nurturing presence. While the rest of us were clinging to hope and counting breath-by-breath updates, my mom was building relationships with hospital staff, planning nightly family meals, spending time in prayer in the hospital chapel, and reminding me of the power I had as a mother — that I could still show up for Luke and be what he needed. In the swirl of fear and anxiety, she helped me feel anchored.
But more than that, she created a sense of rhythm and refuge in the chaos. She ministered to others in the hospital who were walking through hardship, expressed gratitude to staff for the countless ways they were supporting our family, checked in with Chapman and gave him a safe place to land, and helped Luke’s girlfriend feel part of the fold. When I couldn’t think beyond the next hour, she was quietly tending to the next day.
She never asked for recognition. She never needed the spotlight. But her fingerprints were on every single act of care that held us together in those first few weeks. And her presence — gentle, consistent, deeply rooted in love — reminded me that even in the darkest valleys, there is always someone holding the lantern.
The One Who Loved Us Through It All
Through it all, my husband, Charlie, was my steady place to land. In the middle of the most traumatic season of my life, he became both shelter and support — showing up in ways that held me together when I was falling apart.
Every day, he made the two-hour round trip from home to the hospital — bringing me clean clothes, phone chargers, comfort items, and anything else I had forgotten or run out of. He took care of our dogs, paid the bills, and made sure life at home kept moving when everything in our world felt like it had come to a stop. He asked what I needed, and he brought it — without question, without complaint.
But more than what Charlie did, it was how he stayed close. He listened to every fear, every frustration, every exhausted “what if.” He didn’t try to fix what I was feeling. He just stayed near — patient, present, unwavering. When I couldn’t see the way forward, he reminded me there was still hope.
Charlie also carried a quiet weight that most never saw. Luke and Chapman’s dad was present throughout this journey, and Charlie honored that. He walked the impossible line between supporting me and advocating for Luke’s needs, while also stepping back to respect the role of their father. He did it with grace, humility, and deep love — never making it about himself, always centering what was best for Luke and for our family.
Though he isn’t their father by name, Charlie has long been a constant and caring father figure in Luke and Chapman’s lives for over ten years — a steady source of comfort, strength, and love. And during those long, heavy weeks, he showed up for all of us as he always has — quietly, completely, and with a devotion that never wavered. As a mother, watching him step into unthinkable tragedy for children he didn’t raise but fully embraces as his own — it moved me beyond words. That kind of love is rare, and I will never take it for granted.
When You Don’t Know What to Do
When someone you love is walking through a crisis, you don’t have to say the perfect thing. You don’t need all the answers. What matters most is that you come close — and stay. Bring a meal. Fold laundry. Sit in silence. Send a text that says, “I’m here. No need to respond.” Show up without asking what’s needed — and stay long enough to learn what is. Don’t worry about doing it perfectly. And don’t wait to be asked.
Presence is its own kind of prayer. And in my darkest moments, it was the faithful presence of others that helped me breathe again.
But I also know that showing up doesn’t always look like a hospital visit or an hours-long drive. Sometimes it looks like dropping off a gift card or sending a DoorDash delivery when you can’t be there in person. Sometimes it’s praying from afar, checking in weeks after the dust has settled, or leaving flowers on a doorstep with no note at all. Crisis has a way of making people feel helpless — and if that’s been you, I want you to know this: the little things matter more than you think. Your care doesn’t have to be loud or visible to be deeply felt.
Whatever you have to offer — whether it’s time, prayers, groceries, or silence — give it. Give it gently. Give it consistently. And trust that love, when offered honestly, always makes a difference.
Holding the light with you,
P.S. If this met you in a tender place, feel free to share it with someone who might need the reminder: they don’t have to walk through the fire alone.
