I'm not an overtly religious person. I know what I believe and why I believe it and if you don't care to believe the same thing as me, I'm okay with that.
Whenever I am driving and meet an ambulance or fire truck, I always say a quick little prayer for whomever the EMTs or firemen are going to rescue. I've done this for the better part of 18 years. The prayer isn't fancy. I don't always say it out loud, but I always say a quick little something. If it's an ambulance, I pray for a speedy recovery and wisdom for the EMTs, nurses, and doctors the person hurt might encounter. If it's a fire truck, I pray for the safety of the firemen, the safety of the family and animals who may be in the fire, and that the family's most prized photographs and life mementos would be spared.
I've been lucky and blessed to never have really been on the other side of these prayers, save for the time I had to call 911 because I burnt my tater tots. I had a pretty good streak going. Until Sunday when Malone pulled down Meme's towel rack and sliced his index finger open.
To say that I were scared is an understatement. I was paralyzed with fear, but had to continue to care for and comfort Malone.
There was a LOT of blood and we couldn't see how deep the wound was. I was sure we were headed for the ER for a few stitches. The EMT's were able to get the bleeding to stop after about 30 minutes and it wasn't long before Malone was his usual self again.
After the EMT's left, I realized how much those 18 years of prayers really meant someone in crisis. And I hoped that someone out there prayed for us as they pulled over to let the ambulance go by.
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