When I first got the phone call on June 7 about Corey Considine's accident, I was driving my friend M. from a medical procedure. We were in a town I don't know. I had made two turns trying to find a restaurant and ended up on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. headed out of town.
I saw that I had two phone messages waiting from my ex-husband, Corey's dad, and since I had to turn around anyway I just made a left and instead of turning around on MLK Blvd I headed for the nearest neighborhood street and pulled onto the side of the road, skirting the first piece of grass I saw: someone's front yard.
Corey's dad's words broke me open, as if an axe had descended with a savage, perfectly placed blow into the middle of my chest, and I sat in the car sobbing, unable to move. After I don't know how long, I heard M. get out of the passenger's seat and begin explaining to someone why we were parked in their front yard. He said those words that I still cannot say, that my daughter is d--d.
The sobbing kept my eyelids closed and swollen, and I was lost in a world of pain until I heard these words from the other part of the yard: "Ask her if she wants to pray."
I heard myself cry out loud, "Yes!" and I opened my eyes to find the door latch of the car. Then I saw her, a big-shouldered, big-breasted tall black woman standing beside my car. I got the door open and fell into her arms as she held me, all of the pieces of me that were coming apart in every direction. She held me like she loved me. My knees had turned into quicksand.
Then she led me, still holding onto her, a short ways across the yard to her beloved old mother who was getting out of their car. They had just arrived home from errands. I opened my eyes long enough to see how to walk over to the elder lady as she held onto her walker and raised herself out of the car and into a standing position. My eyes involuntarily closed again from the weeping that would not stop. I was pierced with pain, slain with shock as I was physically supported by this daughter and spiritually held up by her mother.
That lady began to pray like a preacher. Like someone who talks to God all day and all night long. Like a woman who has known pain, like a woman who regularly pleads for God's mercy in the lives of others. As she beseeched God and Jesus and all the angels and saints for Corey, and our family, I thought: I need to open my eyes and see who this person is. She is giving me the highest form of help.
As I opened my eyes to see her face, she was looking straight at me and saying, "And I know God will help you through this because God helped me when I lost my son."
I look back on that moment and I know that the angels were there, guiding me. When I thought I was looking for a restaurant, I was being led to that house, that random piece of property in a town unfamiliar to me, as those two Godly women were on their way home.
It does not lessen the pain. Nothing lessens this pain. But it makes me know without a doubt that there are angels among us, and they are guarding us as best they can. Tomorrow night I am going back to Hendersonville to try to find those beautiful strangers and hold their hands and thank them for holding me, lifting me up, in the worst moment of my life.;