BC: Think a Writer’s Conference Can’t Kill You? – Part 2
I have this memory from childhood. I was a good kid, see, rarely in trouble. But one day I told a lie. Insisted on it, even when my mother got that look in her eye like, Girl, your nose is a mile long. I remember being sent to my room, where I would be spanked. I remember my mom coming in, grim-faced, to do the deed. I was terrified. Then—my memory cuts out. Too traumatic a moment.
So here I am many years later, whizzing down the hill at Mount Hermon. I’m zilch on body strength, and my Lyme brain ain’t workin’ too well. I’m about to meet my death and am utterly helpless to stop it.
Blam—blackness. Trauma cuts my memory right there.
Later, building upon the evidence that I apparently survived, and asking witnesses what happened, I’ve been able to recreate the scene.
“Kathleeeeen!!!” I’m clutching my cane, heading straight for Mr. Waiting for a Bus sitting on a bench below. This I do remember—the guy continues to just sit there, watching me. No expression. No body language, like Hey, maybe I oughtta try to save this gal’s life. Nada.
Kathleen is long gone behind me. At least I think so. At this point, all I can do is steer. No time to glance over my shoulder.
I can only say I end up surviving that day due to God’s intervention. Remember, at that conference, He wants folks to pray for my healing from Lyme. And He knows, two months later, He is going to perform one miraculous New Testament healing.
Whizzing down the hill, however, I know none of this. I only know I’m going to die—at a Christian writers’ conference. Arguably one of the safest places on earth. This has to be a first. I can see the headlines, even as I streak to my doom. It will be the dumbest death ever.
How on earth will they break this to my husband?
Then—God’s providence. Pals Kathleen and DiAnn start to chase me. They are losing. But then, somehow, they gain Superwoman strength. Their feet pick up speed. They run . . . sprint . . . fly down that hill. And they catch up to me.
They grab the cart—and pull.
I have a bit of momentum going, know what I mean? It fights them. They pull harder.
Out of nowhere, a third gal appears. Tall, strong. She sees the situation and dashes over. Grabs hold of the cart.
The three of them tug and yank and dig in their heels and grit their teeth until rubber burns from the cart tires and their bouncing, scudding feet.
Mr. Waiting for a Bus calmly watches.
The cart loses speed.
It slows . . . jerks . . . They pull and pull. More slowing . . . skidding . . . winding down . . .
The cart stops.
Kathleen and DiAnn and woman #3 are snorting like horses. Me? Catatonic.
My next memory puts me in my room. Shaky can’t begin to describe my body. D. and K. are unloading my things. I am on the phone to hubby, who reminds his Lyme-brained wife that she has to flip the cart switch to motorize it.
As for Mr. Waiting for a Bus? I never see him again. Not during the entire conference. Nor do any of my three rescuers. You think he’d come up to me sometime during the weekend and say, “Hey, glad you’re all right” or something. Huh-uh.
Was he a man? If so, just as well I didn’t see him again. I might have punched his lights out. Well, if I’d had the strength.
An angel? Sent to X-ray some super power to K. and D. and woman #3?
Guess I’ll find out in heaven. Which, fortunately, lies in the future. God, the Writer in this protagonist’s eternal story, has pulled off one dramatic delay to my entrance.
~ Posted by Brandilyn Collins