Personal Effects

Personal Effects


The blue tractor trailer with the license from California pulls in front of my red Suburu. I swerve off the road, spin sideways and then backwards into a Pine tree. I sit quietly for a moment, then begin to collect each item scattered across the dashboard and into the back seat. They remind me of confused orphans taken from their home and sent into the foster care of unfamiliar territory. As I place each item, one by one, back into my purse I begin to think “What if?”

“What if” I had not survived this accident? “What if” I was miles away in some city far from anyone who knows me? I imagine a policemen placing my items into an ordinary brown box marked Personal Effects. What if he handles these items of mine, but never has a sense of the woman who carries them with her everyday?

Perhaps he will rummage through my make-up bag and discover that I wear light peach lip gloss. Would he know that this particular tube is my favorite? My daughter and I had once argued about the surplus of dark red lipstick she was wearing at such an early age. We ended in tears. Later that night, she tiptoed into my room with two tubes of light peach lip gloss, wrapped her arms tightly around me and said,
“One for you, Mom, ... and one for me.”

Would he know that my daughter is my most special blessing in life? I carried her around with me for nine months and have sensed the flutter of her heart hidden within my heart daily.

Maybe he would pick up my comb and look at the strands of hair entwined in it’s teeth. The strands would show him that my hair is blonde. But would he have the slightest notion that I was strawberry blond as an infant, light blonde at thirty and when I turned forty ... I was a dirty dishwater blonde? It was then that I began the ritual of having my hair highlighted every three months. The pure streak of vanity I’ve always had is still with me to this very day.

My Stop N’ Shop card would surely tell him about my preferred spot to buy groceries. How would he know that grocery shopping is a dreaded chore? I always leave with less than I need after spending more than I have. We all know that's a certain proof of inadequacy! Carrying that grocery card is like wearing a sign on my forehead with flashing red letters screaming"Single Mom ... Loser !"

The lower left corner of my driver’s license reveals a picture of a woman with drooping hair. Her face shows the bleak absence of a smile. I had received a phone call in the early hours of the morning from a close friend’s husband. She had passed the night into eternity during her sleep ... relief from months of painful breast cancer. I carry with me the warmth of our friendship and wear it like a familiar sweater woven with the multicolored yarn of our shared experiences.... girlhood giggles about boys, pregnancies, the raising of our children, her chemo, my divorce. Would my picture tell him that at the very moment the photographer at the DMV had snapped the camera, I realized I would not live forever.

The polieman in the crisp blue uniform would pick up the picture of a garden full of vivid flowers printed on a small card. An even smaller cross is pinned to the card. I always keep it my make-up bag to remind me that even though my face may need work, my inside is beautiful. Would he know that I had made the most crucial decision of my life at age twenty eight? It was then that I accepted the sacrifice Christ made for my sins. The Spirit had entered my heart and planted a garden of flowers that will never die. I will not live forever on this earth, but I will live forever spiritually. I look forward to living an eternity with Christ ... and my best friend who is with Him now.

I start my engine and drive away. Weeks from now, in my mind, I will see this mysterious policeman who had charge of all that was left of me. And I will wonder, would he have known me?