In this season of the cross I wanted to share a story with you about a cross that is dear to me. I hope it brings a smile to your face as it does me every time I see it. Here goes...
There are three crosses prominently placed in my office. The first is a large crucifix from my parents. The cross is a foot wide and over two feet long. Finely detailed and exquisitely hand-painted, the affixed image of Jesus is almost lifelike. You can see the thorns of his crown and the delicate folds in his loincloth. Its absolutely beautiful. By contrast, the second cross is small and simple, fashioned from a single palm leaf during (yes, during) Palm Sunday mass by my daughter years ago. Now shriveled and brittle and faded a light yellow, it holds a special place in my heart and will till it turns to dust, or I do. But this story is about the third cross, so let's get to it.
The cross is made of plastic. It is somewhat oddly shaped, with squat stubby 'arms', wider in proportion than its vertical post. The post has a sloping top and bottom, parallel to one another, angled such that its hard to prop up without it falling over. Its slightly concave when viewed profile, from its side. The front surface is a goldish color with a black outline and is somewhat shiny, not glossy but more like the satin of lightly weathered brass. Its back is a dull manufacturer's gray, clearly not meant to be seen under normal circumstances. Stretching across it, from above one arm to within the other, is a deep crack, clear through the gold but not the gray layer of plastic. More on the crack in a moment. The whole piece is dirty, spotted and stained, and has been that way since I obtained it, and as such it will remain. It measures a little more than nine inches high and three across, and sits on a window sash between me and a gorgeous spring day outside.
Some may recognize this cross, or others like it, by its nickname - "bowtie". To those who don't, it will become apparent as this little story unfolds, starting with how I found it, or it found me. This story starts alongside a busy highway where we met, this cross and I, not for the first time, but for the first under these new conditions. I had come back to this spot, a place far from home but not totally unfamiliar to me, to reflect on what had happened a few days prior, or maybe to try and make some sense of it. Like an experienced detective, or so I pretended, I tried to reconstruct the scene, finding it not that hard to do so with all the evidence left behind. But before I do, let me first play it for you "real-time".
Sunny.... noonish.... happy.... secure.... all of us excited to see everyone.... (then all in 5 seconds).... BANG.... what was that?.... hold on!... silence.... BAM.... bam.... bam.... bam.... BOOM.... POW!
Real-time off.
Alright, here are the tire marks. Here's where we must have left the road. On cruise control going sixty five at the time, this is where our coaster ride began. A moment earlier we had been slammed from behind by a DUI driver (the BANG), jolting the rear end thirty degrees left. Now regaining their traction, the rear tires left dark rubber marks as they propelled us off the highway out of control. Then nothing for a hundred feet or so until lots of scrapes on a flat rock dome halfway up the embankment. The pitch of the roadway and shoulder had catapulted us airborne (the silence) till landing on the rock (BAM). Now a clear path cut through a bramble of bushes and small trees, all laid flat like crop circles (bam.... bam.... bam). Then the bigger tree, pulled out by its roots from the thin rocky soil (BOOM) activated the air bags (POW). Only wounded till then, it was here that the Suburban gave itself up in defense of our family. After taking down the tree, and with it most of our momentum, I could see where the crippled truck had slid back down the embankment and come to rest in a muddy ditch alongside the roadway. The Suburban was now long gone, never to be seen again, towed off somewhere to be stripped for parts. But we were safe - sore, shook up and still a bit in shock, but safe.
As I surveyed the scene one last time before leaving, my eye caught an unusual shape underneath the toppled and mangled tree, the one that killed the truck. As I got closer a muddy piece of gray plastic appeared. I picked it up, brushed it off and turned it over to find the front emblem from the Suburban's grill. The Chevy bowtie. The cross with the crack, now gracing my window sill. The cross that led us through this ordeal and kept us safe.
Now years later, as I look at this piece of plastic, as I am now, it reminds me of how we were protected that day. It reminds me of how the cross protects us every day. It reminds me and I smile.
