The Dance by Garth Brooks began to play on the radio as I weeded the flowerbed. I paused and gazed at the puffy white clouds overhead, remembering a time when hearing that ballad made me a blubbering mess.
It all started in June 1994. I know the timeframe because like most Americans, I sat mesmerized in
front of my TV, watching police pursue a white Ford Bronco with O.J. Simpson
inside.
A couple days after seeing that infamous car chase, I flew to the Cayman
Islands with my friend, Tisa. Her husband had died five months earlier, so her
therapist suggested she take a vacation.
I wasn’t supposed to be on that trip. However, Tisa encouraged me to
book a flight when I told her I’d love to do a girls' getaway like that one day.
Three days into our tropical adventure, plans were made to go snorkeling
with a guide. Our other friends headed to the dive shop to secure our
reservations after we ate lunch. Tisa and I stayed behind to pay the bill, and
then hopped on our motor scooters to meet up with them.
The islanders drive on the opposite side of the road, so Tisa reminded
me to stay to the left. She took the lead and pulled out onto the street in
front of me. Her scooter wobbled much like a bicycle does when a person starts pedaling.
It crossed over the center line into oncoming traffic.
Appalled, I watched as the peril unfolded in slow motion. I saw
the horror on the driver’s face as his Jeep collided head-on with Tisa’s motor scooter.
She flew up in the air and landed on the Jeep’s hood, and then slid underneath the
vehicle. The guy slammed on his brakes, but it was too late. He ran over her head and torso.
Somehow I jumped off my scooter and threw it to the ground. I don’t know
why I looked back at the driveway we had just come down. All I know is my
blood-curdling screams were heard by a man who ran out of a little shack next to
that narrow lane. He took in the scene and hightailed it back inside to phone for help.
Tisa’s helmet was still strapped on her head. However, the tire mark
across her chest revealed the severity of her injuries. The sight of her broken
body splayed on that pavement would haunt me for years.
Forty-eight hours after Tisa was killed, we flew home to Texas with her
coffin in the cargo hold of the plane.
People packed the church at her memorial service several days later. All
were heartbroken for her three young children who were now orphaned. What stood out to
me during the service was the same song that was played at her husband’s service a few
months earlier. The Dance.
Life for others went on as before. Mine did not. I grieved for a very
long time. My healing came slowly. Simple things brought me great comfort. Things such as
hearing my little girl's laughter as she chased her puppy around outside. Or
swaying in a hammock in the backyard. Or delighting in the beauty of a blue sky dotted with
puffy clouds.
Clouds much like the ones I saw earlier today while listening to The Dance.
Tisa loved that song. After her husband died, she shared with me her insight about the words. She said if they'd never met, she could have avoided
the heartbreak of seeing him die from cancer. But then, she would have missed the dance. The falling-in-love part of
their courtship.
Nowadays I'm able to listen to that ballad without the raw pain I experienced almost 20 years ago. God really does heal broken people.
“As one whom his mother comforts, so I will comfort
you.” – Isaiah 66:13
