I vividly remember waking up on May 30, 1957. The sun was already shining brightly through the windows of my bedroom and I was excited about the family picnic that we were planning to attend on that day. As I oriented myself in those first few minutes of awakening I heard my mother talking on the phone. Her words were confusing and her voice sounded the way someone speaks when they are trying not to cry. She seemed to be providing information about someone which seemed rather strange at that time of day. Her use of the pronoun “he” and past tense verbs made me curious about her conversation. I lay quietly staring at the ceiling attempting to make sense of her conversation to no avail. 

I scampered past her and went to the kitchen planning to grab some cereal or make some toast for breakfast. I was stunned to find my Aunt Valeria puttering about as though she was attempting to stay busy but not having much success in doing so. I did not recall any other time that my aunt had come to our home so early in the morning so I became even more suspicious than I had been when I eavesdropped on my mother’s strange words. 

I wanted to be polite so I acted as though it was totally normal for my aunt to be present. I sat down at the kitchen table waiting for some kind of explanation from her. Instead she ignored me for a time while nervously seeming to be collecting her thoughts. She finally spoke to me with a solemn expression and a halting tempo as though she was on the verge of tears. 

“Sharron, God called your Daddy home last night!” was all that she said as she stood watching for my reaction. 

I was eight years old but I was bright enough to know what she meant. Nonetheless I found her comment to be so unbelievable that I challenged her with a silly remark, “God doesn’t call people on the phone. What are you talking about?”

My aunt’s face quivered as she explained much more clearly that my father had been killed in an automobile accident in the early morning hours. Then she quickly added, “I’m so sorry, honey! Your father is dead!”

Shock is a cruel emotion but I suppose that in some ways in protects us from the strong feelings that leak out slowly from the moment of learning about something that is unnatural and life changing. I simply sat frozen in my seat and said nothing more. I understood what she was telling me but I did not want to think about it at that moment. I felt a kind of fear growing inside my chest and I knew that if I began to cry I might never again be able to stop my tears. 

That whole day was a nightmare. Before long all of my aunts and uncles and my mother’s friends had congregated in our living room. They were very protective of my mother who was mostly prostrate in her bedroom. They did their best to watch over me and my brothers but in their belief that we could not possibly understand what was happening they mostly whispered to one another and encouraged us to play outside with our cousins and the neighborhood children. 

It would not be until late that evening that I ventured into my mother’s bedroom were she lay with red eyes and an expression so painful that it hurt to look at her. I climbed onto the bed and she hugged me. Without saying a word we both sobbed for what felt like hours. 

Our world had crashed around us. Our future was so uncertain. It would be months before any hint of normalcy came back to our family. Thankfully the people that we knew and loved rallied around us and did not leave. 

I later learned that newspaper accounts of my father’s wreck had made the front page of both local newspaper. It was a good story on a slow news day of a very young man who had left three children orphaned. The journalists posed many questions about how his accident had happened and suggested a number of possible reasons, none of which could be totally verified. The hints were hurtful to my mom. They insinuated that she and my father had engaged in a spat and that my father had left the house to quell his anger. The story also suggested that he may have been drinking and not totally in control of his faculties. As a result he drove straight into a ditch where many other wrecks had previously occurred because the road was not lit and it ended abruptly. 

Later a huge sign lit with bright blinking lights impossible to miss would be placed at the spot where my father descended into a dark tragedy. In later years cars would be built with seatbelts and air bags, all of which might have saved him on that night. While is was not doubt good to determine how the horrific wreck had happened somehow asking questions about it in the very moment that my mother was grieving seemed to only pour fuel on the flames of loss that she was enduring. 

I find myself thinking about the people who lost loved one in the horrific accident at the airport in Washington D.C. We will certainly want to know what caused the disaster so that we might fix the situation, but focusing on possibilities before comforting the relatives and friends of the victims seems to be ghoulishly cruel just as it was with my mother. 

There is a time and a place for all of the public talk. The people who understand such things are already looking into the possibilities. For now, however, our only thoughts should be about the loved ones whose world has broken apart as surely as that plane. Let us comfort them and help them in their hour of grief, not argue over who and what is to blame. In doing so we might turn to the example of President Ronald Reagan who so sensitively and compassionately held our nation together after the Challenger blew up only minutes after take off. His graciousness was magnificent and he understood that we would have time later to determine why things went so horribly wrong. He brought us all together and showed us how to behave in such moments. This is the hour of grief for so many. It is not the time to politicize what has happened. We all want to fix the problems but that can come later.