When Your Daughter Crashes the Car

Guilt, Shame, & Second Shots (Messed-Up But Managing #17)

When your kid crashes a car, something inside you crashes too. Is there anything that can make the heart sink faster?! It doesn’t matter if it’s a simple fender bender, a fire hydrant getting decapitated, or a full-fledged wreck. In that moment, time slows down. In that moment, your breath halts. In that moment your brain short-circuits. Forget fight, flight, freeze. When your kid crashes, it’s more like protect, fix, yell.

I pride myself on being a great driver. It’s probably one of the most arrogant things about me. I’m always on the offensive and defensive alike. Perhaps that’s because I’ve been in a few wrecks myself. Growing up, I lived off several old Kentucky country roads. These were the kind of roads where the cows outnumbered the humans and the potholes outnumbered the cows. These were the kind of roads that would’ve made John Denver sing, “Take me home…but not on that country road!”

My first car was a champagne-colored Geo Prizm. And, within a week of getting it, I crashed it. Not into another moving car. Not even into another parked car. Into a group of mailboxes. Those home owners were really surprised what came in the post that day! Stupid teenage me was fiddling with the radio. I tuned in to Q102 and tuned out of driving.

I’ve never told anyone this until now, but that same car hit a patch of ice later that winter and sent me over a bank and spinning down a massive hill toward a creek. It was like Mario Kart meets Appalachia. I don’t know how, but somehow I managed to zig-zag my way back up to the road like a hiker doing switchbacks. Truth be told, that car deserved a medal. Instead, it got totaled not long after when I pulled out of a gas station, got blindsided, and blacked out. I woke up to a man coming toward me, cussing and screaming at me like I’d personally insulted his entire lineage. Conveniently, I blacked out again. That disaster was a mile down the road from where a childhood friend later died in a wreck my senior year. Roads hold memories, sometimes they even ride shotgun for the rest of your life. Sometimes you can never drive past that spot again without reliving at least a little bit of the moment.

Fast forward a couple decades, and now my daughter’s driving. One morning, she’s behind the wheel during rush hour on the way to school, practicing driving on her permit. Her brothers are in the backseat, I’m in the passenger seat, praying silently and gripping the “Oh S**t” handle like everything depends on it. Not a bad choice it turns out! Because, out of nowhere, she goes to brake but hits the gas instead. Same thing my school bus driver did three times while I was growing up. Not kidding!

And…Boom! It happened. We hit the bumper of the car in front of us. The world didn’t end, of course. But the way I reacted? Ugh! I wish I could say I was cool, calm, and collected. I wasn’t. Instead, I let an adult word slip, one she’d never hear on K-Love. I hated that. I still hate it. I hate that, in a moment that called for peace, I gave way to panic. We caused a traffic jam on the H-1 that morning. I picked car parts up off the busy highway. I dealt with the police. Then I spent a couple hours getting insurance stuff squared away. I suppose I was just doing dad stuff, you know, the stuff my dad wasn’t ever there to do. I’m not cutting myself slack but hey, at least I was there.

Fast forward to this past Sunday. I had just woken up, washed my face, used the restroom, and walked out into the kitchen. Out of nowhere, I heard a loud thud. I heard a neighbor yell, “Call 9-1-1!” I ran out and, about 50 yards up the hill, I saw a geyser. Water was shooting 20 feet in the air up to the power lines. It was like Old Faithful or, to put a more Hawaiian spin on it, Halona Blowhole, had relocated to our neighborhood for a surprise party.

I ran up the hill and saw a teenage girl in a car. Evidently, her drink and bag had fallen as she turned the corner, and when she reached for them, she yanked the wheel just enough to clip that hydrant and send it flying. Her tire was flat, her door wouldn’t open, and she was flustered. I got her to roll the window down and shift to neutral so she could coast down the hill a bit to the curb. I bent her door back enough for her to squeeze out. And not long after, her dad showed up.

You could feel the tension as he pulled up in his car. You could sense the stress even before he got out of the car or said anything. The heaviness of the moment was potent. A core memory was being formed. He didn’t check on her at all. He simply walked up to the car with furrowed brow. He was disappointed and, well, I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t relate. I could. He said very little except for stuff about calling a tow truck and what all this would cost. It wasn’t yelling. It was worse. It was shame. It was everything I had once given my own daughter in a moment that called for compassion. Ugh! I was dying inside a little.

So I stayed around, just in case. I picked up her hubcap and brought it across the street. I made small talk about nothing just to give her breathing room. I stood between her and the neighbors filming like this was a Netflix docuseries. And when the fire truck started up the hill, I told her dad the only thing I could think of: “This was an accident. Accidents happen. Your daughter is okay. Thank God for that.”

And I meant it. I meant it more than I’ve meant many things I’ve said in life. The fact is: we don’t always know how we’ll react when crap hits the fan. Some of us have been in accidents that totaled more than just cars. Sometimes we crash trust, blow gaskets with our loved ones, and drive fast and furiously straight into guilt.

Last Sunday, I sorta felt like I got a second shot at grace, at redemption. As I reflect on this, I’m aware that sometimes that second shot looks like a whole lot like being a neighbor who stays just long enough to soften the edge between a dad and his daughter. And I’m thankful for that.

I’m also thankful that I ran up that hill. I’m thankful she was okay. I’m thankful the hydrant didn’t knock someone into next week. I’m thankful for the paramedics and quick-to-the-scene police and firefighters. And in retrospect, even though it happened over a year ago, I’m thankful my kid is okay, too. I’m thankful for all the near misses in this life, all the zig-zag switchbacks, and even the mailboxes. I’m thankful for second chances.

I’m thankful that grace is stronger than shame. I’m thankful that a father’s love can be louder than a daughter’s crash. I’m thankful that sometimes, your most powerful moment as a dad is when you don’t say what you feel, but you say what your children need. Because one day, when I’ve aged and weakened, I’ll want and need them to do the same for me.