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 many 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 while
listening to The Dance.
Tisa loved that song. After her husband died, she
shared with me her insight regarding the lyrics. 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 exactly 20 years ago today. God really does heal broken people.
“As one whom his mother
comforts, so I will comfort you.” – Isaiah 66:13