Last night on the walking trail near East End Beach, I took a picture of Snowman with Sam, perhaps the only one among us who doesn't realize how amazing it is our boy has returned home in one piece, not a hair on his head missing or a bone in his body broken.
He got here Tuesday night, the first time we've seen him since his accident.
Each time he tells the story, it sounds a little bit worse.
Each time I hear the story, I find it harder to believe he is among the living.
A bag of golf clubs wedged in between Snowman and the front seat of the convertible remained in place while he fell out of the car. The head of the driver (the club, not the boy) snapped off.
The front seat passenger felt his head hit the ground on both rollovers of the car. He had a bump on the back of his head, but no concussion.
When Snowman showed me with his hands the direction the car rolled and the way he fell out, I couldn't make sense of it. Maybe I never will.
The survival rate for people ejected from cars going at the speed they were traveling is 5%.
I still cannot understand how he happened to survive, how all three of the boys involved managed to live through it. As a good theological liberal, I can't give God the credit without wondering why that same God would not intervene on behalf of other young people, or old people, for that matter. I only know I'm thankful. I only know I'm breathing deeply again.
Well, except when he adds another detail.