September 8, 1997 ranks as one of the worst days of my life. A day I had to face the darkest parts of myself and admit my deepest failures. A day I’d rather ignore, pretend never happened and bury under smiles.
Here’s the thing. If I deny the moment, rebuff the memories and hide behind time, I lose the miracle of what happened. The miracle of rebirth. Restoration. Redemption.
That Monday signaled our marriage’s Ground Zero. It was the day that, dazed and broken, we made the choice (and really, was it a choice? Maybe a spiritual shove…) to be a team… partners…family no matter what. Despite the pain. Despite the brokenness. Despite the despair.
In the years since I am sure we have each wondered at times, “What was I thinking?” Trauma doesn’t stop once the tragic defining moment is passed. It carries a ripple effect through each day, month, year until the ripples get further and further apart and you realize you are still afloat and the swells are softer, smaller and safer.
This was no bootstrap accomplishment. This was divine intervention. Make no mistake. I am still the damaged, difficult person I am.
Today I thank God for Ground Zero. I hold it in my heart with a somewhat uneasy, but gentle recognition that Ground Zero was our kairos moment.