The Burnt Out Ends of Smoky Days

I've been doing laundry all night. Cycling the same load through the wash over and over. Again and again. Trying to erase the impact marks and blood stains. The strengthening smell of gasoline that still permeates my hands after handling and stuffing the soaked jackets and purses into the machine.

Saturday marked a new trial. A new horror. A spinning car and dear friends trapped inside.

I could not share in the impact.

Or the helicopter ride to the hospital.

The initial shock.

But I could share in the waiting. In the gripping sobs. In the pillow fluffing and brow stroking. The whispered "I love you's" and gentle hand squeezing. Willing and praying that our voices somehow could be heard past the beeping and guttural breathing of machines that are doing what bodies were created to do. Sustain life.

We prayed and we prayed. Forgetting to eat. Bodies begging for sleep.

And eventually we had to leave. Because you can sit in a hospital for days, wishing you could bear every bruise and broken hope away. Take it all on yourself in some impossible way.

But sometimes the most helpful thing is to leave for a little while. To trust God to heal. To have faith.

So we recovered what was left from the crash and brought everything home to wash. To renew. And that's why I've been doing laundry all night. Washing the same load of battered belongings. Familiar scarves and favourite vests. Cycling through soapy water. Hot and cold.

It all still smells like petrol. And I don't think the stains are coming out. But its the only thing I can do to help. And so I keep washing.

And praying.

Over and Over.

Again.