After a stretch of time, when commitments in my business
and personal life keep me away from posting I sometimes feel like catching up
by integrating various topics into one piece.
A few days ago I was pondering how I might be able to
roll Duck Dynasty, winter weather anxiety and Christmas into one viewpoint.
Then on Friday morning I walked upon a scene that eerily
resembled a sad memory from thirty five years ago involving a lunch hour
tragedy, a diesel truck and a young woman.
On this day it was mid-morning. I had just dropped off my son, a ten year old
fifth grader, at his school and I was driving on my way to a business
appointment in Queens. The destination
was Northern Blvd in Woodside, to be exact, for those of you who are familiar
with NYC. As I exited the ramp from the
Brooklyn-Queens Expwy several police cars and caution cones were in place and
traffic was being re-directed. There was
no obvious sign of trouble and at first I thought that this might be part of a
systematic shut down of ramps and roadways by the NYPD, which is routinely done
when a dignitary is escorted through the city.
I was directed to the right when I actually needed to go
straight and so I chose to keep going right for a few avenues so I could get
clear of all the snarled traffic. Then I
looped left and back across Northern Blvd to a metered parking spot on a side
street within a couple of blocks of my meeting place.
As I gathered my materials and headed for the office
building I was immediately struck by the vast silence. I turned the corner onto the Boulevard and tip-toed along a city block that was entirely squared off by a police line
except for a small path of sidewalk. A
large tractor-trailer truck sat dormant on the asphalt pavement. There were a few dozen police officers, some crossing
guards, many local residents, business owners and a news crew present. But most notably there was stillness.
Remembering back to college and a similar scene in lower Manhattan
during a coffee break when I worked at Barnes & Noble I did not need to ask
anyone what happened.
But before being admitted into my meeting on the second
floor of the company two blocks away I asked the receptionist if she knew
exactly what had happened. A young boy,
a third grader, was run over and killed as he was heading to school. “I feel bad for everyone”, she said. Speechless and knowing this was the last day
of school before the Christmas break I nodded and thought how sometimes I wish
we could just turn back time.
After the appointment I had to walk back past the same
route. It looked as if everyone had been
stopped in time for the entire hour and no one had moved. Few words were being
spoken. On the periphery, by a 7 Eleven,
I could see some folks using hand gestures to explain where the vehicle came
from and how the dreadful accident occurred.
The truck’s bulky engine, cab and container were shrouded in yellow tape
and it loomed ghostly and mummified in the center of the street.
I was thinking about how it is typically challenging
enough to sense and feel the wonder and beauty of the world amid all the dangers
and heartache that abound. Gut wrenching
events like these would seem to move the challenging to the impossible for the
families involved.
This is the season of joy and merriment. But it’s a man-made season. The seasons of life and nature work beyond
our control and don’t always allow for concurrence.
In times of despair some people turn closer toward
faith. Others turn full steam away from
conviction.
The longing for a higher power is clearly understandable,
especially in the face of the incomprehensible.
And the dismissal of any possibility of a Godly being is equally
understood.
In my speechlessness, as I looked around, I can only
reflect upon the two thoughts in my head.
Eight year old boys go directly to heaven and I hope to God that it
exists.
© 2013 Christopher’s Views
