This past Saturday, just as I was arriving in the seminary chapel for morning meditation, the house phone rang. I hate when the phone rings just as I’m arriving in the chapel, but I ran to answer it anyway. Imagine my surprise when, on the other end, I heard my mother’s voice, clearly upset. “Patrick, your sister’s been in a car accident,” she said. “You need to come to Wilson Memorial Hospital as soon as you can.” That was all I needed to hear. I dashed upstairs, doffed my cassock in haste, printed directions to the hospital, acquired the permission of my rector, and left.

When I arrived at the Johnson City, N.Y., hospital around 8:45 a.m., I was greeted in the trauma center by my father, who informed me of the extent of my sister’s injuries. He then led me into the trauma center to see her. The sight of my kid sister in the midst of roughly a dozen doctors and nurses and covered in blood nearly brought me to tears. I saw my mother standing beside, unable to restrain her weeping. It was only a few minutes before they took her to surgery, but it was long enough for me to tell her she would be okay and that I love her, and for her to tell me that she loves me as they were wheeling her bed into the Operating Room.

During the surgery, my family was understandably worried. There still seemed to be some chance that she may not live, and none of us, as yet, had any idea what the details of this accident were. After surgery, we were able to relax a bit. The news was good—there was essentially no way that she would die from any of her injuries, the list of which no longer included the possibility of brain damage. There was also some bad news—the surgeon was forced to perform a “trans-tibial amputation of her right lower extremity.” In layman’s terms, they amputated her right leg a few inches below the knee. One of the other passengers, we eventually discovered, had died.

My family took the news as well as could be expected. It still remained, at this point, to tell my sister about both her leg and her friend. When the time came, my mother and father broke the news to her in her room in the ICU. I was not there at the moment, but her continuing demeanor since that time indicates to me that she received the news maturely and soberly, but has not therefore allowed herself to fall into despair.

My sister now has two options when considering the problem of how to proceed with the rest of her life. On the one hand, she has the option of depression and despair, of self-pity and the constant belief that a normal, healthy life is impossible. On the other hand, she has the option of approaching her newfound troubles head-on with the firm resolve that with the necessary effort and attitude, she will be able to overcome this and all consequent hurdles that appear over the course of her life. In more philosophical terms, my sister has been presented with a first-person case study of the basic problem of all theodicy, as well as one of the most common objections to the existence of God. That is, my sister now has to decide for herself in a much more abrupt and devastatingly urgent way than many people whether she can believe in a God who would allow this to happen to her.

While I cannot say for sure what decision she will ultimately make in this regard, I can contribute the impressions I have had of her already since her accident. She began physical therapy on Monday, and is running into it full force. Whereas a significant number of amputees become dejected and refuse to leave their beds to begin physical therapy, my sister nearly jumped out of hers to get behind her walker and start doing laps around her wing of the hospital. I am told that doctors and nurses have been very impressed with her above-average recovery so far, no doubt fuelled by her above-average enthusiasm and desire to regain a normal, active life. They remain confident that she will, and in as short a time as two months.