Christian Living

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It’s holiday time and we have rented a house at the beach. We enjoy lazy mornings on the back patio, eating breakfast in the sun. We walk along the sand and watch seagulls soaring on the wind. We pick up driftwood, shells, and bits of pumice-stone and carry them home in a bucket. We wander around the wide streets of the seaside village, investigating little shops and taking detours to the playground.

On one particular day we decide to drive into the city to do some shopping. We go from one shopping centre to another, looking for things we cannot find. People jostle us, and piped music clamours for our attention. We feel frustrated; regretting the impact this has on our relaxation. We call it a day and make our last stop a service station. We start to drive back and get caught in afternoon peak-hour traffic. Our children are growing hot, tired and hungry.

We take the route out of town and stop for road-works along the way. I look out of the car window and see some horses eating grass in a paddock. The orange glow of late afternoon tints the scene and enhances the hue of the ground, the bark on the trees. Large, old gum trees remind me of the stunning part of Australia I grew up in. There is something rich and deeply reassuring about God’s creation, as seen in the bush. It has a resilience and strength that isn’t evident in the same way as in a delicate flower or lush green lawn. When superficial aesthetics are put aside, the true nature of God is revealed. Underneath is an intense resonance - a clue to the power and emotion of God.

These hints of God pulse through me once the traffic is allowed to continue. We are driving slightly under the speed limit and people behind us want to overtake. The road swings around the hills and we see more mountains further over, lit by the setting sun. The purples and orange-pinks are intense. Vehicles have switched on their lights and we now have a glimmering trail to follow, although it is not yet night-time.

We reach a crest where traffic has come to a slow crawl. My husband, Bruce has to break abruptly and we, too, are soon puttering close together in the line of cars. A few vehicles ahead of us are two tow-trucks, their orange lights flashing. There must be an accident. Another couple-hundred metres down the road, and the traffic is stopped. Bruce turns off the engine to save fuel and we wait. The children look around and doze in the back seat.

In this break we are released from our hurry, and allowed to contemplate the dying day. The mountains are still soaking up the last rays of sunlight; their colours are blending together in the twilight. The grass on the roadside is long and offers hope of life and growth. Oncoming traffic comes past in a cluster, their headlights sparkling in the dimness.

At last the cars ahead of us gradually move, and we slowly inch forward. As we crest the hill, we see an array of emergency vehicles. Three fire trucks, an ambulance or two, and many police cars. We see the roof of a bus parked amongst it all.

A policewoman directs the line of traffic onto a track off the side of the road to bypass the accident. As we file past, we peer through the long grass to assess the scene. There is a ute, and a car. The car is pointed towards us and its front half is completely smashed in. There is no way the driver could have survived. A stretcher is on the ground covered in a tell-tale white sheet. Ambulance officers are moving around under temporary spotlights doing what they have to do.

This is it – the place and time of death. We drive past, have our look and move on. There is nothing we can do. We don’t know the people involved. There is nothing we could have done to prevent it. Sadness grips me as I realise the seriousness of it all. Beyond the accident, drivers stand beside parked vehicles; dazed and powerless to continue their journeys.

All around us, the sun is still setting, the bush is still pulsing with energy, and will be ready to greet the new day tomorrow. At least one life is gone, and we move on to the rest of our holiday. From the cassette deck comes the sound of Chris Rice singing, “Every day is a gift you’ve been given/ make the most of the time, every moment you’re living….” My heart throbs with resonances of life, and yet the fatality I witnessed is real and significant. The juxtaposition of life and death is mind-blowing. …I wonder how God feels about all this.

Does God care? What a stupid question. More importantly, do I care? God is where He always is, holding this planet together… while we do our hardest to rip it apart. But where am I? What am I doing for all the lives that can be saved? Am I just driving past, having a look, then moving on to my happy pursuits?

I cannot sit by while I have life and hope, and others don’t. Thousands of people die each day from hunger; a small donation to an aid organization makes a big impact on a community’s pain and suffering. Depression wraps paralysing shrouds around youth while a few sincere conversations can be the difference between hope and despair. There must be thousands of lives I could help in some way.

We continue our journey, but the memory lingers. Life – it’s a priceless gift. I want to make the most of every moment.


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published in the Record, 15 December 2007

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