Haunted by Peace (by Timm)

It was an October night in 1981 that the haunting first began. The moon had not yet risen over the mountains that surrounded the town of Jackson, Wyoming when I stuck my thumb out, trying to get a ride home. The movie I just came from left a smile on my face, a welcome diversion after a day of job-hunitng.

A Volkswagen Beetle lumbered up to me and, peering through the windshield, I recognized the occupants from the apartment building we both lived in. I sat in the backseat, leaning against the side, lulled into a light sleep by the humming engine when it happened.

It was days later when I finally got the full story: a large pick-up had pulled out in front of us when we were doing 60 m.p.h. making the impact inevitable. The driver and the passenger in the front of the Bug were trapped in the mangled mess while I had been ejected, flying 20 yards before hitting the grassy shoulder. The other driver walked away from the incident with a couple of scratches.

A few hours later I was aware of a hard table beneath me, a strong odor of disinfectant and the sound of somebody screaming. I opened my eyes but shut them quickly since the lights above me hurt. People bustled around me but I didn't know what they were doing. My mind a fog, but slowly the realization dawned on me that we had been in an accident.

Somebody was touching my head and another approached the table.

"Is he going to make it doctor?" the newcomer asked the one probing my scalp. No reply at first, just the gentle probing.

Finally the doctor stopped, sighed and responded. "No, I doubt he'll make it thru the night."

I'm dying. My life didn't flash before my eyes, nor was there a series of regret.

In fact, what I felt surprised me: peace.

It was unlike anything else I'd ever experienced. It surrounded me, enveloping me in a protective cocoon that nothing could touch. The horror of dying at 18, cut down prior to living my life down just didn't matter. Live or die I didn't care. I was beyond caring. I was in that peace.

Later that night I was airlifted 500 miles to Salt Lake City and, contrary to the doctor's prognosis, I lived. But something was different. Eventually I pieced together what had happened, even the last-second screeching of brakes, but what I remembered most was the peace.

I have taken time alone with God every morning since I was in my mid-teens, praying and reading my Bible. It was my way of preparing for the day - getting my head and heart in line with God. It was a few weeks after the accident when I was finally able to do this ritual and then it was there again. The peace. Nowhere near as strong as the night of the accident, but it was the same.

I remembered that night and that incredible peace. I wasn't completely sure what it was all about, I just knew that I never wanted to be separated from it. I was beyond hurting when I was there, enveloped in His presence and here it was again.

My morning devotions took on a whole new meaning as I realized the more I cultivated an intimate relationship with God the more I sensed His present peace.

Before long I noticed it in other places also. Walking in the woods I would be surrounded by it; worshiping, whether in church or alone it was there, and any time I would stop long enough to reconnect with God, there it would be. It's a wonderful gift, available to everyone. Often appearing as a phantom - unable to physically grasp or manipulate, but when I let go it is there.

He is there.

He is here.

The memory haunts me.

(June 2003)