Created: July 23, 2025

Salt Lake City, July 1994

I was sixteen years old.
Salt Lake City. July 1994.
It was just weeks after I first connected with Hector. Arizona would come in November but, this—this moment—came first. And it came fast.

I had an evening shift at JJ North’s Grand Buffet. I’d recently transferred after working at JB’s Restaurant, where James’s sisters—Angie and Brandy—trained me to carry myself like I belonged in the front. At JJ North’s, I was still learning the new rhythm, but I was steady. Ready.

My girlfriend from work was riding with me. On the way to our shift, I realized I’d forgotten something at home. We made a quick detour back to the apartment I shared with my Mom, my Brother, and my Baby Sister.

I was driving south on 13th East, approaching Vine Street. My Dentist’s Office was on the Northwest Corner. I lit a cigarette. The light turned yellow.

And then it happened.

A black Toyota 4Runner approaching the intersection jumped his green light. He wasn’t speeding. He just rolled in too early—started to accelerate before the light had changed.

I reacted fast. Swerved hard to avoid him.

The front passenger-side tire blew out. I lost control. The car turned back towards him. Impact.

I didn’t black out.
I didn’t go unconscious.
I was awake the whole time.
Start to finish. I remember it all.

My instinct took over. I reached across the seat to hold my friend in. My body slammed into the steering wheel. My forehead smashed into the windshield—and the glass didn’t break the way people think. It grabbed. It pinched.

It peeled.

I saw something hanging in the corner of the windshield and thought, What is that?
Later to learn, it was my skin.

When I looked up, I could see the 4Runner across the street in the schoolyard on the northeast corner. That’s where it ended up after I hit him.

These days, I look back and think:
“You need to get back out.”
Because that’s what it felt like—someone entering my intersection before they had the light. Before they had the right.

Back then, I didn’t say that. I couldn’t. I was too busy surviving.

They took my denim shirt—the one I wore over my black tank top—and used it to try to stop the bleeding. The dentist across the street saw the crash. He called my Mom.

She got there before the ambulance did.

They loaded me onto the gurney.

And then my Dad arrived.

He looked at me. His voice low, matter-of-fact, but heavy with disappointment:
“You really did it to yourself this time.”

I looked again—and saw white.
Bone. My skull.
I was awake. I knew what I was seeing.

And that—
That’s when I started to cry.

Not when I saw the blood.
Not when I saw my skull.
Not when they peeled the shirt from my shoulders.
When he said that.

It hit harder than the windshield ever could.

I turned away and saw myself in the reflection on the gurney rail—bloody, open, real—and the tears finally came.

But God sent the right Doctor. A Plastic Surgeon was working the ER, no accident. My Mom wouldn’t have let anyone else touch me. He brought my scalp down. Lifted my eyebrow. Rebuilt what he could.

What he left me with wasn’t just a scar.

It was my Perma-Hope.

Because as a Kirton Kid, I loved Days of Our Lives. Bo and Hope. Victor. Shane. Eve. The Brady’s. The drama. The pain. The fight. Hope was my favorite. She always made it through. Always found a way back.

That’s what I’ve done.

I didn’t make it to work that night.

But I made it.

And I’ve been wide awake ever since.

Because everything—everything—changed
when the light changed.

“This scar was stitched by a Surgeon, but it was shaped by my Father’s words.”