May/June 2005

ARTICLE TOOLS

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I will never forget that March morning in 1996. Just as I was preparing to drive to the Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) to pick up my husband, who was coming in on a flight from South Korea after a long missions trip, the phone rang. It was from my son, Tom, who was then 34.

"Mom," he said, "please be extra careful on the freeway this morning. It's still dark, and there are fog patches." I assured him that I'm always careful when driving the freeways. "I know you are," said Tom. "It's just that I had a nightmare. I dreamt that when you were driving to pick up Dad, something hit your windshield and you lost control of the car and crashed into other cars around you."

"Oh, Tom, what a terrible dream," I said. "But don't worry about me. I'll be all right."

"But Mom, promise me you'll leave a little earlier and drive very carefully."

"I will, but don't worry. I am sure you just had a bad dream."

As I backed out of the driveway, I said a quick prayer for myself—and for Tom. He clearly had been shaken by that dream, since he had called me when he normally would have been asleep.

I suspected those kinds of dreams came from an overheated imagination, and perhaps unconscious expressions of personal fears. But, to assure my son, I promised him I would call him when I returned home with his dad.

About 45 minutes after leaving home, I was preparing to transition onto another freeway when suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard a horrendous noise that sounded like a gunshot going off beside my head. An unidentified object had slammed into my windshield.

And then I felt it.

Splintered pieces of shattered glass were flying into my face, hair, and mouth.

Trembling like a leaf and spitting glass pellets out of my mouth, I clung ...