On Friday afternoon, I was glaring at my Daughter as she ran along ahead of me, thinking she would very likely trip moving at such a high speed in her rubber boots.  It had been raining that morning but since cleared, making her bright turquoise boots with the fishtails on the heels look humorously out of place on the dry sidewalk.  Such suburban normalcy.  It is absurd to think of it now.

As we approached our house, my Neighbor asked me to take her younger child.  Her tone made it very clear that something was terribly, terribly wrong.  Out of respect for this family and the friendship we share, I will not disclose the graphic details of the medical emergency that was unfolding.  All I will say is that I arrived to find her kneeling over her eldest child in the midst of a severe and dangerous medical Crisis.  It looked as though she was slipping away.

People often complain about ambulances taking forever to arrive, but this ambulance was there in what felt like seconds.  As its doors closed, I was faced with the task of notifying the child’s father by text, as I had told my friend I would. Not one to normally shake under stress, I had to put every ounce of concentration I had into steadying my badly shaking hands enough to send a few words.

The Ancient Greek origin of the word crisis is krisis which means a separation, a distinguishing or decision.   With arresting speed and cruel, crystalline clarity, a crisis such as this one separates all that seems to matter from all that truly does.

I went across the street to get the children, my daughter included, where they had been ushered by another mother who had come upon the situation. I had little time for my own emotions, pausing only briefly to pray with this mom, heads bowed and hands linked, to the Great Physician.  An image came to my mind of God gathering a heavenly host of hospital personnel, waiting with skill and love to save this ailing child.  I was comforted enough to spring into action and do what needed to be done, which first and foremost was tending to the two little souls in my care.

I brought them home and gratefully received a concerned neighbor who was aware of what had transpired.  We were going shopping for our weekly groceries the next day and so were low on easy snacks; I asked that he bring some.  I put on the kettle, something I have always done when things go wrong.   I fed the children and answered their questions and greeted another neighbor.  And then I made supper, tacos with diced onions in the ground beef, chopped greens for garnish, just as I had planned.

All that mattered in those horrible hours, all that it seemed would ever matter again, was health and emotional connection and a good solid meal.  What frivolity I had spent the week mired in, what silly wastes of time and energy, what taking my loved ones for granted.  When we are young, the older folks in our lives warn us, to our endless exasperation, that life can change in the twinkle of an eye.  We barely acknowledge this, of course, so caught up we are in our foolishness and our youth.   Eventually though, we learn this terrible lesson for ourselves, and we begin to understand that little is really important in life except the ties that bind us and the health that keeps us together.

We are only human, after all, subject to distractions and annoyances and making mountains out of molehills.  But every once in awhile, a crisis comes along, and it causes an essential separation between all that occupies us and all we truly value.  And in the end, if we are open to the lesson, we are more discerning afterwards, because very little matters, and what really does means everything.