The Stars: Where I Found My Purpose

There was a screech of tires.

A crash.

Glass shattering.

All I could do was lay there on the grass, in the middle of a ditch, on a long country road, staring up at the glowing summer sky. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t scream. There was no one in sight, of course. I had made sure to choose a quiet place to die so no one would find me and try to keep me alive. It was just me and the stars.

All I can think now is, “How did I get here? Am I ready to die?”. Not here physically, but here, in this stage of life. I crashed my car into a light pole on the edge of a ditch going as fast as my car would let me, but I was so sure I wanted to die. Was. Past tense. I’m not so sure anymore. No one was coming to my rescue. Not a car had passed by in hours. Had it been that long? Or does time just seem to stop when your dying in a ditch?

“God?” I manage to croak. “How can you just let me lay here…alive? I wanted to die. Dying was supposed to be my choice! How can you have taken that choice away from me?” I shout into the void. It’s funny how anger is the only thing that can help me find my voice.

“What happened to free will? Huh, God? If I choose to die, why would you keep me from doing that? Is this a sick game to you? Or am I such a terrible, selfish person that you don’t want me in heaven with you? Well, I have news for you, God. I’M NOT GOING TO HEAVEN!”

           Silence. With all of my anger at God shouted into space, I begin to cry. I begin to think about what possessed me to run my car into the pole. I’ve been a good person all my life. I was someone that my parents could be proud to claim as their own. I was class president during my high school years. Every time I walked down the stage after giving a speech or accepting an award, they beamed and cheered the loudest. “That’s our girl!” my dad would stand and shout, but I would be too embarrassed to acknowledge them. Humble. That’s how people would describe me.

           I did everything right. I was the preacher’s daughter. I made sure I was perfect. Well, in the public, of course. There were some things that I did in college that would make my mother faint, but it was nothing too serious. I was just having fun, and I learned from my mistakes.

I went to church every Sunday. I said all of the right stuff. I knew all the right answers in Bible drill, and my dad even baptized me in the third grade. Where did my life go so wrong? It’s not that my life was terrible. I married a wonderful husband (who is probably finding my note right about now), built a beautiful house, and created a successful career as a nurse. With all of that, how could I have been unhappy enough to try to end it all?

Maybe I wasn’t unhappy with these things. I guess I just felt as if my life had no purpose anymore. I mean, if I had succeeded in my career and seemed to have it all at twenty-seven years old, what is there to work for or look forward to in the future? What’s the point of living if this is all there is?

I know what people will think when they finally discover that I killed myself, assuming God eventually lets me die. People will think, “What? Not her. She was always such a strong believer. Her faith never wavered and she had such a close relationship with God!” or, “God blessed her with so much! How could she ask for anything more?” But that’s the thing. Maybe I never realized it until now, but I never truly believed in God. I knew the right answers in Sunday school because I had heard the same stories all my life. I had them memorized. I never believed the words I spoke. I never believed that there was a god up there that could possibly love me. I never believed the messages my dad preached about a merciful and loving god who looks after His creation. I mean, I know that I have a lot to be thankful for, but what about those who don’t? What about those homeless veterans I passed by every day on my way to work? Does God not care about them? What about the women in other countries who suffer abuse from the hands of men every day? Does God not care about them? What about the children whose parents abuse or neglect them? Or even the old, feeble men and women placed in a retirement home because their own children simply didn’t want the burden of taking care of them? If God is so loving and caring and all-powerful, how can he let these people suffer? Does God not care? A good, merciful god would care, and he’d do something about it.

I guess I didn’t realize until now, but I never really wanted to die. I thought I did, but now I understand why I crashed my car into a ditch. The first reason being that I felt guilty. I felt guilty for faking my way through life yet still coming out with so much more than I deserved. Those veterans on the street risked their life for me and they have nothing. They, at the very least, deserve to switch places with me. They worked for everything I have, yet they don’t even have a roof over their head. What did I do? I went to school with my parents' money because that’s what they wanted me to do. I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I did what I thought would make them happy rather than going to school for me and finding my passion.

The second reason I crashed my car into the ditch is because I was testing God, or rather if there was a god. I didn’t know if God would care enough to save me. I know I don’t deserve to be saved, but I guess that’s the thing about God. He often shows people His grace: a gift that isn’t deserved and can’t be earned. “God is a god of second chances,” my dad would always say, and, “Every day God’s mercies are new, so yours should be too.” I always thought he said this to mean to show others mercy, but now, as I look up at the stars, somehow shining brighter than before, and see the faint glow of flashing lights and hear the soft sounds of distant sirens, I understand he meant that God always forgives me and that I need to forgive myself. I haven’t yet earned what God has given me and I know that I can’t possibly deserve it, but now I know that it’s how I use these blessings that count. I may not be able to earn those blessings, but the beauty of it is that I don’t have to. I can use what God has given me to bless others, which will be my way of thanking God for everything He’s given me. Maybe that’s why God allows some people to suffer. So those of us who have more can bless the people who have little.

The sirens become louder and the flashing lights become brighter, and before I know it, the ambulance is rolling out a stretcher. I still can’t do anything but stare into the night sky, knowing that God is here looking out for me, and, for the first time in my life, genuinely believing that He loves me because He made me, not for the things I’ve done. For the first time, I truly understand God’s loving and caring nature.

“How did you know I wasn’t ready to die?” I quietly ask God.

“Besides the fact that I know everything about you, even the parts that you don’t understand yourself? Besides the fact that I created you and knew each thing that would happen to you before you were even born?” God answers from somewhere within the stars.

I laugh softly and say, “Yeah. Besides that.”

“Easy,” God replies. “You wore your seatbelt.”