Yesterday, my family and I were on our way back from Nashville where my 15 year old had participated in the Music City Half-Marathon. When we were about 30 miles from home on I-65, the Chevy Blazer directly in front of us suffered a catastrophic blowout on the rear axle. The vehicle began to fish-tail, modestly at first, but with increasing intensity until the Blazer swerved across all three lanes, hit the cement barrier and flipped.

Avoiding the wreck, I pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, told Lauri to stay put, checked my mirror, and got out. Lauri, my wife, reminding me of her nursing skills, immediately exited the car and ran across the road to check on the injured. Traffic had slowed some, but it was clear that not everyone had seen the accident. Then I noticed an 18-wheeler bearing down with no apparent intent to slow at all. Driving at interstate speed, his horn announced his coming. With horror, I began to shout across the road to Lauri. The roar of cars between us made it difficult for her to hear me. I was certain that everyone--Lauri, those in the wrecked car, and others who had stopped to be help--would be killed when the truck reached the scene.

A car moved and the truck blew through the middle of parked cars on one side and the wreckage on the other. That no one was killed in either the initial accident or by the reckless driving of the truck driver was no small miracle.

Upon reflection I was struck by how suddenly life can change or end altogether. One moment we are driving along having a pleasant discussion. The next, we are witnessing a major accident and might have been killed ourselves. Psalm 90 comes to mind.