Vicky looked at me from the passenger’s seat. “I don’t want to break up with him, I just….”
Suddenly the car spun on a rain-slick, the headlights illuminating trees. Darkness, crunching of metal, glass shattering, and a hard thud changed our world forever.
“Am I going to die?”
I shook my head. “Vicky?” Something separated me from her yet I could feel her hand. Black space surrounded us.
“Please, help me,” Vicky gasped. “I want out. I don’t want to die.”
“Wait,” I struggled free of the seat belt and twisted. A heavy object protruded from under the dash. Did it hit Vicky? I grasped her hand.
“Vicky, I’m here, okay?” She squeezed my hand so hard it thought it would break.
“It hurts, Mary Lou. It hurts.”
I gulped. Fairly certain I had only scrapes and a few cuts, I fumbled for my cell phone. “Let me try to call for help.”
Vicky whispered, “I don’t want to die. Am I going to die?”
My dearest friend, at 25, in a shaky marriage, had just been laid off, but she didn’t want to die. That’s good, I reasoned.
“Vicky, listen to me. I don’t want to die either. I want to live. Do you want to live?”
“Live….” She shrieked. “It hurts!” Her sobs were weak.
“Vicky, can you hear me?”
“I don’t want to die.” Her plea and desperate tone reached my ears.
“Let’s talk. Want to?”
“Tell me I’m not going to die.”
All I could think of was my own assurance of life after death, thanks to Jesus Christ. So live or die, it didn’t matter. Maybe Vicky didn’t have that. I had assumed she had a personal Savior, that she had given her life to Jesus. Why hadn’t I asked her before now?
“When I die, what happens?”
O, Lord, Holy Spirit, give me words, wise words.
“Well, Vicky to every person who believes that Jesus is the Son of God, that person will not perish, but will have everlasting life.”
“He’s my Savior, Vicky. Because of Him I can die.”
A deep long moan interrupted. “I don’t want to die.”
Please, heavenly Father, give me words. I took a deep breath. “Vicky, do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God?”
“I want to.”
“Then say it. Say, I believe,”
“I…I,” another moan, “I believe…”
Give me words, Lord. “That Jesus is the Son…”
“Jesus is the son of God…” a gasp and the grip on my hand weakened.
“Vicky!” I shook her hand. “Vicky! Hang on.”
The cell phone had been in between the seats, which meant now it was under the heavy object. I slid my free hand into the tight space and felt all surfaces. “I’ve got it, Vicky! Hang on.” Into the phone I said, Hello. We’ve crashed. We’re injured. We’re off the road….” I gave what facts I could remember. “Please hurry. My friend is hurt.”
“Mary…. I think I can die.” Vicky’s hand trembled. “I see Jesus.”
I fingered the cross dangling from a thin chain that circled my neck.
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