I’d never met the child. Our lives had barely touched. But years later, I still thought about that poor kid—and remembered the prayer I’d sent up when I’d learned about the tragic accident.
I was a stay-at-home mom with an eighteen-month-old daughter, Laura, and was pregnant with my second child. It was a Friday in November, the day before Veterans Day, a cool afternoon—I’m famous for remembering little details like that. We lived outside Rochester in Penfield, New York. Laura was playing with her toys; I was getting dinner ready. My husband, Cliff, wouldn’t be back until around four o’clock after a doctor’s appointment.
At three, I heard Cliff come home. “You didn’t forget about your appointment, did you?” I called.
Cliff came into the living room. “Dr. Seaford canceled his appointments today,” he said. “His nurse, Kathy, was in a car wreck.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“It doesn’t sound good,” Cliff said.
Kathy was taking her kids out for ice cream when a garbage truck ran a red light and smashed into her van. Her daughter was fine, but Kathy had sustained some serious injuries, and her four-year-old son was in critical condition.
“He might not survive,” Cliff said.
I looked at Laura playing with her toys. I put my hands on my belly, feeling the swell of the baby inside me. If something happened to either one of them . . . I couldn’t even bear to think about it. All I could do was pray that Kathy’s little boy would be okay.
The following week we heard that Kathy’s son had survived but was paralyzed from the chest down.
That little boy stayed in the back of my mind for years to come. My daughter Mary-Kate was born—healthy—the following March. As both my girls grew up without the challenges that boy faced, I hoped he’d find happiness despite his circumstances. When Mary-Kate was six, our family moved to Walworth, a town out in the country, and adopted horses. Mary-Kate blossomed into a girly girl, but she loved riding with Laura and pitching in at the stables. From time to time, I’d look at the girls and thank God for our blessings, wondering what had happened to the boy and his family who had suffered so tragically.
It had been nearly twenty years since the accident when we moved back to Penfield into a smaller house. The girls were grown. That’s when Mary-Kate came home from college to finish her business degree remotely. One day she announced that she’d signed up to volunteer at a sports camp.
“It’s called SportsNet,” she said. “It’s a rec program for kids and adults with disabilities.”
Mary-Kate really enjoyed it. She kept mentioning a fellow volunteer she’d befriended named Josh. They began to spend a lot of time together. I wanted to meet this young man.
“Why don’t you invite him over one night?” I asked. “I’ll make my macaroni and cheese.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” she said. “It’s hard for him because he’s in a wheelchair.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
Mary-Kate explained that he’d been in an accident. “A truck ran a red light and hit his mom’s van,” she said. “He was only four years old.”
A lightbulb went on. Truck . . . ran a red light . . . four years old . . . “Is Josh’s mom a nurse?” I blurted. “Is her name Kathy?”
Mary-Kate eyed me suspiciously. “Yeah. How . . .”
“Did the accident happen in November?”
“I don’t know,” Mary-Kate said. “Why? Mom, you’re weirding me out.”
“I prayed for Josh,” I said, “on the day of his accident. I was pregnant with you.”
My memories of that day were so detailed that she had to believe me. And when Josh came over for macaroni and cheese a few weeks later, I felt an instant connection. He’d grown up to be a witty, smart young man with a sunny outlook on life. I could see why my daughter put so much time into this new friendship.
It was more than that, I discovered. Josh and Mary-Kate were in love. They dated for two and a half years before the beautiful day Kathy and I witnessed them taking their vows. Yes, that little boy I prayed for? He’s now my son-in-law.