This gratitude is powerful stuff

I am so happy this morning.

The melon is sweeter, the garden more miraculously beautiful, my children and husband even more lovable than usual.

There is nothing like deep gratitude to cast a golden light on everything around you.

Last night, my plan was to get out to Zionsville, Indiana with plenty of time to spare, pick up a non-fat, no-whip venti iced mocha for the two-hour-long return trip. I have to collect Sam, my ten year old, as soon the camp fireworks end and return him to his bedroom for a few hours of sleep before getting him up to begin rehearsals for Grease, the musical, in the morning.

Fortunately, I had a sugar free Red Bull right before leaving home, because the Zionsville Starbucks is closed for the holiday.

I am greeted by friendly faces at the camp and invited to watch the fireworks (incognito, so as not to set off a wave of homesickness) with some staff in their car at the edge of the sports field where they are being set off. Darkness falls and I spend the next segment of time developing a new skill: hitting the iPhone camera button just before the fireworks explode in the sky so that their blaze is captured digitally.

After the grand finale, we see some figures moving toward the bushes. It is Sam, no longer on crutches, being escorted (by his brother, Max) to meet me at the camp office. Instead, Sam climbs into the staff car with a big grin on his sweet face. Max gives me a quick squeeze and soon, Sam and I are on our way, homeward bound, in our brand new car.

At this point, I already have so much to be grateful for. Sam's sprained ankle has been healing, in his happy place, this wonderful camp. Max seized an opportunity to see me, even if it was, as he'd text me later, only for .3 seconds. I am glad to be wide awake, having been treated with kindness, and now, buckled into a wonderful new vehicle with my precious child.

There had been light rain on the way to camp, but now, the sky is clear, and the roads are practically empty; perfect conditions for driving. Bonus fireworks sparkle on either side of the highway as Sam shares some of the highlights of his last three weeks. No, he hasn't memorized his lines, but he has become familiar with the script and he is confident enough that he will catch up at rehearsal. Life is good.

At midnight, I decide to cut short our chat. "I know you are not sleepy and I love hearing your stories," I tell him. "But you are going to be so tired in the morning. I have to wake you at 7:30, you know, Sam."

"Mom, it's a treat to sleep until 7:30!" he says.

"Not when you've been up until 1 am," I warn. "So, please, stretch out, put your seat back, get comfy, and we will talk more tomorrow."

"Okay," he says, and falls silent.

It is midnight, exactly.

Ten minutes later, I see a pair of lights in my rear view mirror. Two mismatched little stars, piercing the darkness behind me, growing brighter very quickly, too quickly. I ease into the right hand lane, slowing from 75 mph to 70 so that the driver can more easily pass me by. As I watch the lights continue to brighten at an astonishing speed, I see they are even more unbalanced than they initially appeared. The bright orb on the left seems to emit three or four times the wattage of the one on the right. As the car comes up on my left, I glance out the side window to catch a glimpse of it, curious as to who or what is in such a hurry at this hour of the night. I take in a boxy, rusted, white mid-sized sedan, 25 to 30 years old. The image has just enough time to register in my mind as it flashes past my window. How fast is it going, I wonder? The next thing I know there is a loud squealing, a screeching, a scream. I grip my wheel, and watch in silent horror as the white car spins crazily counterclockwise toward the median, spraying gravel at the front of my car, at me. Like a stunt car in a movie, but this is all too real.

I feel a fear stored up in me from an earlier moment on the highway with Sam, several years ago. In the middle of the day, in the right hand lane of a three lane highway, I had passed a car and then heard Sam announce "hey, those cars just crashed into each other!" and as I looked to my left, I saw one car careening toward the median, as the other came veering my way. I watched out my side window as the large black sedan literally broke apart, the shiny fenders, the wheels, all disconnecting from each other as if they were the universe expanding as it hurtled through space. An exit ramp appeared miraculously on my right, and I glided onto it without further incident. But my heart was beating like it was part of the drum corps.

Now, for a second time, I feel all my leg muscles tighten, my heart pounds, races, and next, my breath comes very quickly, along with a torrent of words, as if they had all piled up in my throat during the previous moment, when I must have been holding everything in.

"Holy, holy, holy..." I say, at first, not allowing myself to finish the phrase. "Holy, holy, holy...crap," I finally say. "I'm sorry, Sam, but a car just passed us and then the driver lost control and it spun out just as soon as it passed us... That noise you heard was that car, skidding and sliding, and then you heard the gravel hitting our car as it got thrown up from the ground when that car crossed the center of the highway. Oh, my G-d, Sam, oh, my G-d! I don't know how that driver can still be alive, Sam, I really don't. I hope to God he didn't hit anyone else. Oh, Lord! Everyone getting on this road right now must be drunk. Too many beers while watching the fireworks, then they get behind the wheel and try to get home. Oh my G-d, oh my G-d, I hope I don't see anyone else on this road for the rest of this ride. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!"

I struggle to shut up as fast as I can and try to get a grip on myself.

I drive on in the dark, white-knuckled, trying to calm down, listening to the BBC news, wondering if I should pull over, then deciding just to keep going, just to get home as fast as I can. Safe. We are still safe. Why are we safe? It must be Sam, I think. This special boy of mine. We were protected because of him. Both times, such narrow escapes, and completely unscathed. It must because of Sam. There must be an angel protecting him.

I need to believe this because, of course, there are still other cars on the road, and I am now afraid that all the drivers are drunk. I try to think of statistics. They can't all be drunk! I am painfully aware, with each breath, with each mile, with each pair of lights ion the darkness, that any one of the oncoming cars or trucks could come across the median at me, that the next speeding car could come up behind me and skid into me instead of away from me. For the next twenty minutes, I mutter under my breath, like a madwoman, at every car in the rear view mirror "keep away from me, keep AWAY from me!" until they are each safely past. I am tempted to speed the rest of the way home, letting no one pass me, but I realize this is impossible to do safely. I choose to continue praying, muttering and gripping the wheel rather than trying magically isolate myself from everyone else on the road.

Finally, our exit sign appears like a green and white shining beacon. We exit the highway and slow to 35 mph. I remain hyper-vigilant, reminding myself that most accidents occur very close to home, in the final stretch, when we let down our guard.

A half hour after the crazy screeching of the white car, we arrive home safely. I tuck Sam in, and he says, with a smile "a real bed!" and then, I walk across the house, splash my face with water, strip off my dress and climb into bed. On my side of the mattress, an outstretched, open hand waits to take hold of mine. I take Paul's hand, and find that I am gripping it very hard, unable to let go or to loosen my grasp. I take it in both my hands and press it to my chest, then tell him that I am wide awake, that I had a scary drive, that I am ever so grateful to be home.

Paul listens to my story, then thanks me for my safe driving, for bringing our precious cargo home safely, and drifts back to sleep. I lie awake, disturbed to realize that I did not think to call 911, wondering what happened to the driver of the white car, amazed that the accident happened just after he passed us, after having come up from behind us for so long. Had he not seen us until just then? Was it because he'd had to switch lanes, after all, in order to get past us? My mind races until some unidentifiable point in time, when it must short circuit, releasing me into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

This morning, everything is better. Paul has hidden the bathroom scale, sparing me its reproach. My boys are two angels in their neighboring beds as I brew good coffee from just enough beans. I pinch baby mint leaves from the garden, noticing the beauty all around me, observing that the Rose of Sharon has opened its first blooms of the season. I cut juicy, orange melon into slices and arrange them lovingly on a green plate. It is so beautiful that I have to photograph it. Everything and everyone is so sweet that it is all I can do not to cry.

The boys leave for rehearsal in my friend's minivan. I walk the dog in the dappled sunlight, and loop back to the house. I finish my coffee and take up my violin to practice the Archduke trio. As I begin to play, pleasure washes over me. This music, this moment, this day.

I am so happy to be here. I am so lucky to be alive.