The Accident

Two vivid recollections remain in me of that moment on a dark winter morning when the outside rearview mirror of a passing van struck me in the back and flung me to the ground beside the road. I knew at once that I had reached a point of no return. I did not know how seriously I was injured, but I knew that something old had come to an end and that something new, as yet unknown, was about to emerge.

As I lay by the side of the busy road, crying for help, I knew also from the instant I was hit that this was not purely an accident. Later I would be able to see clearly how predictable, providential, and mysteriously planned the whole event was. At the time, my primary concern was that help would arrive, yet I realized that something strangely "good" was happening as I lay on the side of the road.

It had been a very busy week, filled with many little things, none of them terribly important, but still taking up every hour of my time and leaving me quite tired, even somewhat irritated. There never seemed to be the space to come into direct touch with my own inner source. There was, however, one clear exception. I had been asked to help Hsi-Fu, a deeply handicapped fourteen-year-old Chinese boy, to get ready for school in the mornings. Nathan and Todd, who usually help Hsi-Fu, had left to participate in a retreat, and I was very glad to take their place.

In fact, I felt quite privileged to have the opportunity of coming close to Hsi-Fu. Hsi-Fu is blind, unable to speak or walk, and has both physical and intellectual disabilities; but he is so full of life and love that being with him helps me to get in touch with what it is that makes life so truly nurturing. Bathing him, brushing his teeth, combing his hair, and just guiding his hand as he tries to put some food on his spoon and bring it to his mouth create a safe intimacy, a quiet bond, a moment of true peace — almost like an hour of meditation. I had already spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday mornings going through his routine with him, and I looked forward to being with him again.

Hsi-Fu lives in the so-called Corner House in downtown Richmond Hill, a five-minute drive from the house in which I stay. That Thursday morning I woke up early, and when I looked out of the window, I saw that the ground had become a sheet of shining ice. Obviously, it would be impossible to drive the half mile from the house out to Yonge Street. The dirt road had become more fit for skating than driving, and taking the car would only land me in a ditch.

My friend Sue, who was on her way to prayer when I was ready to leave, said, "Don't take your car out. It's impossible." I said, "No, no, I will walk. It's only six o'clock and I will easily get there by seven." Sue replied, "Henri, don't go. It's too much. Call the Corner House; they'll find a solution for Hsi-Fu." Right then I felt a deep resistance to letting go of what I so much wanted to do. Again Sue said, "Don't go." But I persisted, "I can do it. I promised." So I left the house and began shuffling my way over the icy road out to Yonge Street.

Walking proved difficult, and at one point I slipped and fell flat on my stomach. But I kept saying to myself, "Keep going. You can make it. Don't let a little ice get in your way." It was not pure service that motivated me now but the desire to show myself that I could fulfill a little task, and the even stronger desire to let no one take Hsi-Fu away from me, at least for this week.

When I reached Yonge Street, I saw that it had taken me fifteen minutes to get there. I crossed the road and began walking south to Richmond Hill. As I walked, I began to feel very anxious. Cars were streaming by, and although the road itself seemed free of ice, the shoulders were very dangerous. I kept stumbling and coming close to falling. When I reached the gas station, I realized that it was already half past six and that I would be unable to make it to the Corner House by seven.

Just then, a small truck with two men inside pulled into the station. I decided to ask their help. I knocked on the truck window, and when the man sitting beside the driver rolled it down, I said, "Good morning. Is there any chance that you could take me downtown? I have to be there at seven o'clock, and with all the ice on the shoulder of the road, I'm never going to make it. It's only a three-minute drive." The driver leaned over toward me and said, "No, we can't help you. We're just arriving to open the station. We have no time."

I decided to try again. "Listen, it's only a few minutes, and I really feel nervous walking along the road with all this ice. Please, can you help me? It won't take you very long." But the answer was the same: "I'm sorry, we have no time." I started to feel anger rising in me and a strange desire to force these men into helping me. So I said, "But I really have to be over there" — I pointed with my hand — "where you can see the church tower, and I won't make it if you don't help me. There's nobody here who needs you right now." The driver started to back his truck further into the parking area, saying, "I'm sorry, we have no time. We have to open the shop." Meanwhile, his passenger closed the window and left me alone.

Suddenly I felt very angry. These two complete strangers had become my enemies. I felt indignation, yes, even rage erupting from a deep, dark place within me. I had been misunderstood, pushed aside, rejected, and left alone. A feeling like that of an abandoned child swept through me. Turning toward the street, along the shoulder, I knew I had to be careful, but I wasn't. I trudged where cars with glaring headlights were speeding by one after the other. Now I was determined to be on time. I would show that pair that I could do without them, that I didn't really need them, that other people would show more compassion than they, and that, after all, I was right and they were wrong.

As I approached the moving traffic, I turned to the oncoming headlights and raised my right hand, pointing toward downtown Richmond Hill. Car after car emerged from the morning mist and passed me by. I thought about all those men and women driving comfortably to work alone in their cars and, peevishly, began wondering why no one seemed to notice me or show any inclination to stop and take me the little distance I needed to go. The two enemies had become many.

A strange ambiguity had me in its grip. My mind understood clearly that in these conditions it was completely unrealistic to expect a passing driver to see me, realize that I needed help, and stop and take me downtown. I certainly would never be able to do all of that were I driving to work at half past six in the morning of an icy day. Despite this, there was, at the same time, this rage, this increasing feeling of rejection, this inner shriek: "Why do you all pass me by, ignore my pleas, and leave me standing alone on the side of the road?" My insight into the absurdity of my expectations kept intersecting with my strange anger.

Finally I decided that the only way to make it to the Corner House was to walk. Meanwhile, though, time had...