My youngest son turned 18 this summer, which means he’s legally allowed to handle his own life now. So when he had an appointment last Tuesday, I honestly debated letting him go alone. It’s a small milestone that sneaks up on you. Then, at the very last minute, he asked if I’d come with him — in that roundabout way teenagers ask, so as not to be caught wanting me there.
I should have taken the hint. That was the first in a long series of little things that went right.
The appointment was quick and uneventful, exactly as I’d expected. On the way home we were first in line at a stoplight, and we were just talking about music — Calvin had something playing on his phone, and I was staring unfocused through the intersection, waiting for the light to change. We were definitely not on high alert. We weren’t paying much attention to what was about to happen two cars ahead of us.
Then I heard a crash. In a split second I realized an accident had just happened at the intersection. I scanned right to left, trying to find it, and the moment my eyes turned forward, my view filled up with the covered bed of a pickup truck coming straight at us.
There were only a couple of seconds, but a lot of thoughts went through my head: The accident is still happening, and it’s coming right at us. This is it. That truck is about to hit us in the face. What can I do?
It hit, exactly as expected. The truck bed landed on our windshield, slid down without breaking it, and settled onto our hood. We sat there stunned for a few seconds. Terrifying as it was in the moment, we were physically unharmed — because we hadn’t been moving, we didn’t even whiplash. I’d say we got jostled.
I looked to my left, frightened for the people in the truck that had flipped. It took me a minute or two to get my thoughts straight, and then I did the first thing that seemed important: I shut off the engine. I told Calvin to carefully get out of the van and off the road, grabbed my purse and keys, and managed to push my door open just enough to squeeze out. I tried the truck doors, but it was hopeless from that side. Kind strangers who pulled over were able to get the couple out through the driver’s door.
I dialed 911 and reported the accident while I walked off the road. The next few minutes were such a blur that I didn’t even remember making the call for hours. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t right beside Calvin checking he was okay — until it came back to me that I was on the phone, describing what happened, where we were, and that the couple in the truck would likely need an ambulance.
Everyone walked away from that intersection, but the couple in the truck was taken to the hospital, and I still don’t know how they’re doing. They certainly had the worst of it, and I think about them a lot.
When I finally had to describe the whole thing to a Maryland State Police officer, I wasn’t even 100% sure myself. I could guess, but I really didn’t see what happened until the truck was already flying at us, and then my view was blocked. A woman parked at the opposite corner had a dashcam recording the whole thing. Watching it gave me clarity — and it showed me how many things had to go right for Calvin and me to walk away unhurt.
First, I was the one driving, which I wasn’t supposed to be — he was supposed to be handling his own appointment. We were sitting still at a red light, but I’m glad I was behind the wheel, and I’m glad he wasn’t there alone. We’d taken the van, our tallest car with the most body around it. In one of our other cars, that truck would likely have gone straight through the windshield or landed on top of us. The timing meant the heaviest part of the truck — the cab and the engine — never touched us. And one thing I only figured out in the wee hours that night, as I played it over in my head: if the truck bed hadn’t been properly covered, all those ratcheting straps and tools could have become projectiles through our windshield. The cover stayed in place until the truck flipped, and some of the contents spilled onto the road.
At the tow yard, emptying the van and pulling our plates, I finally got a clear look at how close that truck came to my head. It’s amazing the windshield didn’t break.
The accident sort of upended my week, and I’m a bit behind on everything, but it was so close to being life-altering. As it stands, it’s mainly inconvenient — and it might force us to buy a new van before we planned to. We’re driving a rental while we wait to hear whether the van is totaled or repairable. We expect it to be totaled, but we’re hoping it’s just body work and we can get a few more years out of it. Toyota Siennas have skyrocketed in price, and we are not excited about car shopping.
In the end, it’s just a van. We’re so thankful no one was seriously hurt. I was genuinely moved by everyone who stopped to help — directing traffic, pulling people out, staying on the phone with them. In that moment, professions and politics and religion and age and race didn’t matter. People were just helping people, and there’s something really special about that. It was also pretty incredible to watch the professionals work together to move the vehicles and clean up the intersection. They’re impressively good at what they do, even if I’m sure they’d be happy never to do it again.
That’s what I’ve been sitting with since: gratitude, quietly, for a dozen small things that simply went the way they needed to. Some of them I can name. Some I can’t. All of them were there when they mattered.
The Glow Ritual: Next time something goes sideways — a dropped mug, a missed bus, a bad morning — stop and name three little things that went right on the way. It takes thirty seconds, and it puts your whole day back in perspective. I keep mine in my head, and I’m telling you, it works.
a note from Johnson: I keep thinking about that woman’s dashcam on the opposite corner. Somewhere out there, someone is recording the exact moment our whole world tilted — and it’s already just a file on a phone. That’s the world we live in now. I’m not sure it’s a comfort. I’m not sure it isn’t.
Glow is a habit, not a product.