16

A SKY FULL OF GRACE

by Ashlee Gadd

The sound of a tire rolling on gravel still haunts me. I see flashes: the sunset, the river, my double stroller with two kids strapped in it barreling toward the water. My body hitting the ground. The scar. The blood swirling down the shower drain.

I get knots in my stomach just thinking about that day.

It was a typical Thursday. After weighing witching hour strategies—an early bath, early dinner, or a walk outside—the sunshine streaming through the windows made the decision easy.

“Everett, go get your gigi!” I instructed my oldest. A minute later, he ran into the kitchen with his threadbare blue blanket trailing on the ground behind him. I grabbed an applesauce pouch from the snack cabinet before strapping Everett into the left side of our new double stroller, clicking Carson in his car seat into the right side. It was warm out, but I pulled a teal knotted hat over Carson’s head and tucked a light blanket over his eight-pound body for good measure. I stared at the double BOB stroller, slightly astounded that such an impressive piece of baby gear belonged to me. I was still getting used to the size and weight of it all—both the stroller and the fact that I was a mother of two.

We strolled down the driveway and veered left at the end of our street toward the elevated river trail. If we hurried, we would probably be able to catch the sunset. I pushed the heavy stroller up the steep, tree-lined path, feeling the weight of two kids in every muscle in my legs.

With one last push, we arrived at the top, and the view was stunning as usual.

“Look, Everett! Do you see that pretty sunset?”

I motioned toward the sun, which was probably fifteen minutes away from disappearing altogether. I made a mental note to take a picture of the sky on the way back.

We walked along the trail and said hi to every passerby: joggers, cyclists, a few college students strolling toward campus, a man walking his dog. Carson fell asleep while Everett chattered, joyfully pointing out every single thing he witnessed: “Look, Momma! A bird! A butterfwy! An airpwane!”

About half a mile in, we turned around, and I almost gasped at the view. The whole sky had morphed into an abstract painting. Orange and pink hues swirled the heavens, with billowy cloud strokes added for texture. Beautiful sunsets are no stranger to the river trail, but that day, the sky was exceptional. I reveled in it: that moment, those two sweet boys in the stroller, the warm breeze on my face. Not too shabby for a witching hour.

Just before we arrived at the path that led back down to our neighborhood, I stopped the stroller to take a picture. I pulled my phone from the cup holder and turned around to face the sunset. The trail fell silent. All of the college students and joggers had vanished, leaving me with a perfect, magnificent view of the sky.

Click.

It happened in a second, two seconds tops.

I only heard the sound of a tire rolling on gravel.

My head whipped around as I watched my double stroller tip over the ledge of the path and start falling in slow motion, heading straight toward the river.

I was not even able to scream.

My body launched down the hill at full speed trailing just one foot behind them with my arm outstretched, aching, praying, pleading, Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.

I tripped on a rock and fell flat to the ground, but my body sprang up as if it never happened. The stroller slowed a bit and crashed into a shrub. I yanked the handlebar back, gasping for air, desperate for a sight of them.

Everett looked stunned. Carson slept through the whole thing.

“Everett . . . are you okay?!” I managed to get out, still gasping.

He nodded. I looked over at Carson in the car seat, his body lightly covered with leaves and mini pine needles. I touched his face, his hands, and watched him inhale and exhale a few times.

Hot tears streamed down my face as the adrenaline began to wear off. I started to feel my body again, my fingers and toes. I was covered in dirt from the fall, and there was a huge bleeding gash on the left side of my hip. My hands were studded with little rocks and my legs were covered in cuts. Everything hurt. I looked around for help, but there was not a single person in sight.

I spotted my phone at the bottom of the hill and called my husband to tell him what happened. I reassured him that we were all fine, but I was lying through my teeth.

I was anything but fine.

I checked the kids again and made sure they were okay before placing my trembling hands back on the handlebars. I started pushing the stroller back up the hill, startled by the pain in my knees.

Demons pounced on the silence.

How could you have been that stupid, that reckless? Why didn’t you put the brake on the stroller? Why did you take your hands off the handlebar? Why did you turn away from them? Why did you need that dumb picture? What if the stroller had gone past the shrub? What if the stroller had fallen in the river? What if? What if?

I blinked back tears and tried to rationalize with myself, desperate to obliterate that hypothetical. My own voice broke the silence.

“Everett, Mommy is so sorry. Was that really scary?”

“Yeah . . . that was scawy,” his little voice squeaked. “But I just held my gigi weally tight.”

I stopped the stroller and burst into fresh tears at the image of my two-and-a-half-year-old holding on to his blue blanket for dear life in a moment of overwhelming fear.

I walked to the front of the stroller and knelt down beside him, my knees aching from the fall.

“Ev, Mommy is so, so sorry. That was very scary. Mommy was scared too. It was just an accident,” I reassured him, while desperately trying to reassure myself.

The three of us made the short trek back to our house, and I prayed the whole way home. Three lines, over and over again. Thank You, God, for protecting my babies. Please forgive me. Please help me to forgive myself.

As soon as we got home, I turned on an episode of Sesame Street in a futile attempt at normalcy. In the bathroom, I carefully removed my clothes to find even more cuts and bruises.

I stepped into the shower and let warm water fall over me, but nothing could wash away the horror of what had just happened. I couldn’t separate the scalding water hitting my face from my own hot tears. I put my hands on the wall of the shower for support while my body shook with sobs.

Three days later, I went back to the river trail with my husband. I pointed out where I fell, and where the stroller had crashed. We examined the scene together, and for the very first time, I realized how much space was between the river and where we were standing.

“Babe, that stroller never would have made it to the river. Even if you had stopped chasing it, the stroller would have stopped by itself.”

He was right. The worst scenarios I had fabricated in my head would have been physically impossible. I forced the vision of my double stroller sinking to the bottom of the river out of my head once and for all.

I wish I could say that eliminating the worst-case hypothetical made it easier to forgive myself, but it didn’t.

The wound on my hip eventually healed, but one year later, I have a permanent scar there, about the size of a quarter—a relentless purple mark to remind me of that day. Sometimes I think about getting it laser removed, like a regrettable tattoo. At first glimpse, it’s a painful reminder of my own carelessness—tangible proof of my worst day as a mother.

It’s taken a whole year (and a whole lot of prayer) to see something different, but now when I look at my body in the mirror, at second glimpse, I am learning to see this truth: every scar on my body tells a story. Each line, stretch mark, scar, and blemish on my skin carries the evidence of my love for these children: a love that stretches, a love that is willing to be sliced open on a metal table, a love that would run full speed down a hill without breathing. This love doesn’t stand by to watch. It is not helpless. This love is a wholehearted participant.

And yet, these scars on my body also serve as a not-so-beautiful reminder of my own humanity, evidence that I am made of flesh—flawed, imperfect, and breakable. When I put that into perspective, it makes my Creator’s love for me that much greater. Unlike us, our heavenly Father is not prone to accidents or even capable of making mistakes. His love for His children is full, whole, and divinely perfect. I never understood how loved I was by God until I became a mother and realized this truth: the love I have for my children pales in comparison to the love God has for me. Just thinking about that takes my breath away.

It’s a new day, and a new witching hour. We’re up at the river trail again. The boys are both inhaling applesauce pouches, and Carson’s tiny feet are crossed, basking in the warm sunshine on his toes.

There was a time when I thought I would never come back here. It was too haunting, too raw; the trail had lost its magic.

As the bruises on my knees began to heal, I confessed what happened to a few friends. Without a single judgment, my fellow mother warriors offered me a surprising gift: empathy. One by one they each whispered their own confessions—tales of babies falling off beds, toddlers accidentally slipping down the stairs, scary moments in swimming pools, a night of co-sleeping that almost ended tragically. There were mothers all around me who could recall their own Worst Day in an instant. As much as I cringed hearing their stories, I took refuge in knowing I wasn’t alone.

“Mommy do you see that?”

I follow Everett’s little finger and look up to see a white streak of clouds in the sky, arching over the trail.

“It’s like a cloud rainbow!”

I stare at the sky for a minute, suddenly feeling like Noah looking at a promise.

You are more than your worst day.

You are more than your biggest mistake.

I promise, this will not define you.

I push the stroller toward the cloud rainbow, my hands firm on the handlebar with the promise of grace floating right above us in the sky.

YOU ARE MORE THAN YOUR worst DAY. YOU ARE MORE THAN YOUR biggest MISTAKE.