"Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of light, and the earth will give birth to the dead" Isaiah 26:19
The Day Everything Changed
My youngest son, Ashton Lawrence Welch, was tragically killed on 11/15/2022. A drunk driver armed with a shoddy 90’s era American truck and a complete disregard for law and humanity rammed into his helpless car at full speed. The light of our lives was parked at a red light, at an unremarkable intersection in south Pueblo, Colorado. Witnesses say he died instantly and likely never saw it coming. He was 18.
The car that had been his pride and joy, his freedom and that which helped form his young identity was now impossibly malformed and twisted, turned inside out and collapsed upon itself- wreckage in the truest sense.
Love; It's What Makes a Relationship a Relationship
Ashton purchased our 2013 Subaru Impreza in 09/2020 for about half of retail, with hard-earned wages from Subway and the Royal Gorge Bridge, discounted in reward for his willingness to work and performance in school, as well as our earnest desire to bless him and invest in his bright future. He was 9 years old when we bought it new.
He made a sizable down-payment and then, every so often, would proudly present me with a fistful of hundreds, until his debt was paid. He never begrudged paying or expected anything beyond the terms of our agreement, even if he did periodically- and covertly- happily relieve his mom of large sums of gas money.
Between 09/2020 and 11/2022, there were speeding tickets, minor accidents, dents and scratches that mysteriously proliferated, cruelly curb-rashed wheels, misaligned ski racks, blown tires, inadvertent deer culling, and even a failed transmission which was miraculously covered despite being well out of warranty.
The front bumper shroud took the most damage, like a brave older sibling in an abusive household that sacrifices themselves for their little sister. At one point it was kept on with a surprisingly not-unsightly repair of flex-seal and drywall screws. After an unfortunate and emotional incident involving a guard rail on Highway 115, we spent the afternoon vigorously buffing and polishing until it looked presentable again. Besides repairs, we performed tune-ups and oil changes and once spent hours tearing apart the interior in an attempt to upgrade his stereo system, with what turned out to be only marginally better speakers.
Looking back, these episodes, ranging from mad rage to hysterical laughter to simple, quiet companionship, were some of the absolute best times of my life.
Total Loss
When I visited the grimy, predatory salvage yard that serves as a repository for the relics of our worst times, I was led by a stoic attendant, apparently salvaged himself, to an indiscriminate pile of steel and plastic that only upon closer inspection was revealed to be my son’s beloved car. An emblem or paint swatch here, a fragment of fabric there, the only vestiges of what was.
I fell on my knees, gripped a piece of mangled sheet metal and sobbed and sobbed while the attendant muttered something unintelligible and left me to my suffering and to the dreadful task of rummaging through what was left.
There was a shredded sleeping bag, a gift from me in preparation for his now aborted departure into a new career and new home in another state. There were articles of clothing, some of which I took, and some of which I left to their grime and gore.
Shattered glass like cheap, fake, diamonds littered the floor and broken seats. Splattered blood sprinkled like that of sacrificial offerings; that same precious blood I had bandaged and zealously guarded so many times. The headliner of the car was torn and hung like filthy, ruined curtains, only adding to the horror they were trying vainly to obscure.
I didn’t take any pictures. I had the fleeting impulse to, but thankfully realized the images burned onto my soul were enough- like shrapnel lodged in my heart- and I never wanted anyone else to see and suffer likewise.
Origins
Ashton was born at home in our bedroom at 4:15 am on the 25th of March, 2004. His lovely mother Shawnda had been in labor most of the previous evening on the 24th, which was her birthday, and was trying desperately not to deliver him until the following day. She wanted him to have his own special day.
When the time for delivery came, Shawnda had the quiet, peaceful resolve of one of God’s true martyrs. She faced the trial of childbirth without any apparent fear or anguish- a slightly elevated breathing rate the only sign she was about to undergo one of humanities greatest challenges.
Ashton came out unwillingly. The pushing and trying went on and on and my fears grew and grew. I was on the verge of dialing 911 when finally, he came through one particularly great effort and presented himself for the first time. He had been holding his hand near his head, obstructing, pushing, and fighting against entry into this broken world. He never belonged here, in the dirt, in the muck of this fallen realm and it was as if he was holding onto the love and safety of the womb as long as he could without hurting his mother.
He was beautiful in every way. 7lbs 10oz. Supple limbs, fine long fingers and toes, silky hair, perfect nose and lips, sweet softness, and the effervescent charm of innocent helplessness.
He grew into a sweet, loving child who told his mother and I he loved us every single day.
Through everything, he was always a joy and light to our family until the day he was gone.
Can You Hear Me?
The call came around 10:30-11pm. We had just fallen asleep and were in that first deep sleep one has when irresistibly overcome by exhaustion. It was the call every parent dreads- but never expects.
Shawnda’s phone rang first. She didn’t wake until her voice mail notification. As she was confusedly listening to the message, my phone rang too. An urgent but disconsolate female voice was digging into my unconsciousness- dragging me awake. Ashton had been in a serious accident. “Get to the Hospital as soon as possible.” What? Ashton had been in a serious accident. Who is this? “This is a nurse at Parkview Emergency Room.” What happened? Ashton had been in a serious accident. I hung up the phone- still groggy- now sick and shaking- fell on my knees beside the bed and wept, prayed, and begged God he would be alright.
We drove to Pueblo in complete terrified silence as fast as I could in veritable disregard of speed or time and pulled up brashly to the front of the Emergency Room. We checked in and walked through the waiting room- to another lonelier, darker waiting room. The nurse told us he was in surgery. Again, we sat stunned and waited and prayed- and waited more, and then the doctor came.
He began to describe Ashton’s injuries in graphic but detached clinical detail. He detailed the steps taken to treat him, even going so far as to massage his heart, and concluded in a way I should have seen coming but didn’t. I hoped and expected words to the effect, “but, he’s going to pull through”.
Instead, the terrible words, “but despite all our efforts we couldn’t save him”. These words broke upon us like a destroying wave- sweeping away all hope in its filthy, foaming wake; thundered and pummeled me irresistibly into the horrible recesses of blackest pain and suffering. I wept and wept and wept- “My poor boy! Oh God- I’ll never be happy again” were the only pitiful words that would form from my gasping breaths.
Shawnda sat completely stunned, expressionless, nearly catatonic and in shock. Her eyes, like a doll staring into nothing; wide and dilated. She replied to their questions in nonsensical, robotic one-word answers with the blessed, protective detachment God gives His poor children in times of greatest trauma.
We never saw him again. They handed us a hospital bag full of all that was taken from his precious person, and we left, driving home again in near complete silence, broken only by occasional spasmodic fits of sobbing.
Everyone Please Stand
Ashton and I assembled my observation stand in August of 2022. It was the last time he ever visited La Cresta, which we referred to simply as “the property”. His work and social schedule generally precluded his ability or desire to go with me anymore, something I had grown to resent and be saddened by.
In the past, we had felled trees, cut firewood, moved rocks, and even built a small trail with hand tools over a couple weekends. I gloried in these fine days, but in my myopia, didn’t see how I had unintentionally allowed La Cresta become to Ashton a place of toil instead of a place of freedom and exploration- of hot, long days and sore hands rather than joy. Where I saw hope and progress, La Cresta meant for him only loss and sacrifice. I tried to reward him, pay him, bribe him, and praise him, but it was too late.
On his days off, he wanted to be with his girlfriend Jeni, or his friends, in his car, laughing, listening to favorite music, being young and full of potential, empty of the cares and concerns of the wretched overworked world. Looking back, I don’t blame him one bit.
The stand arrived in an enormous box, far larger than I initially anticipated and I was intimidated at the prospect of trying to assemble it myself. So, when Ashton seemed genuinely enthusiastic and willing to help me assemble it, I was surprised, but also happy, grateful, and excited. Not only did I genuinely need the help, I was touched by my son’s interest and looking forward to spending the day with him.
Around this time, Ashton had hit a deer. It was the worst damage yet his Subaru had incurred, leaving it barely drivable. Given his prior history, my initial Dad instinct was to let him drive it the way it was, an embarrassing testament to his failures as a driver, to teach him some sort of misguided lesson. I’m now so thankful I was able to see how my merciful Father has always treated me with love and grace, instructing me with kindness and faithfulness, rather than leaving me to suffer, wallowing in the consequences of my foolish ways.
Of all my failures as a father, this was thankfully not one of them. We called the insurance, filed a claim, and his car was sent to the body shop. As part of the claim, I was offered a rental car, which was fortuitous given the enormous aforementioned box sitting in my garage. I opted to rent a truck, paying the rate differential, and secured a burgundy Ford F-150 that was only two years old, but had the well-worn look and musty smell of a truck 10 times that age. There were stains and scratches, rattles and creaks. The bed had been spitefully used, with deep dents and scrapes like primal, vindictive claw marks. I took a slew of photos to ensure I wasn’t blamed and roared off with a mission.
The Day came. It was a Thursday, the 11th of August. It was clear, bright day and Ashton had the day off. We got there early, but it was already warming up. Soon the sun was high and sweat and gnats stung our eyes. Ashton stripped off his shirt and wrapped it around his head, opting for a potentially serious sun-burn rather than the annoyance of gnats. We worked, step by tedious step, hour upon hour, until it began to take shape from what had been a disheartening pile of seemingly random steel rods and a comical amount of tiny plastic packages of nuts and bolts.
We had begun constructing the stand on a particular spot, chosen more for convenience that anything else, with the intention of later moving it to a spot closer to a stand of trees. Yet, when we tried to move it, we couldn’t find a better location, and realized that we had casually chosen a spot that was nearly perfectly level and afforded stunning 360-degree views. We both laughed, left it where it was, and finished building it around noon.
When complete, Ashton and I took a few celebratory photos of the stand itself. I wanted to take some of Ashton as well, but since he had his shirt off, I elected not to, knowing that despite his utterly handsome frame, his impeccable features, he would be self-conscious and I didn’t want to ruin the moment by forcing him to do something he didn’t want to- or at least would have been uncomfortable with. I wish so badly now I had.
Soon after, we returned the truck and picked up his car from the shop. It was the happiest I had seen him in ages. He was in giddy disbelief his car looked so good again, so new again. For his young mind and heart, it was as if they had conjured a marvel. While my cynical eyes could pick out a few tiny flaws, to his eyes it was perfect, renewed, and I sensed it quickened something new and hopeful in him as well. He soon began his real estate education, got promoted at work, and was making progress towards what would undoubtedly have been a blessed and happy future. Yet, it wasn’t to be.
Sacred Ground
In just 95 days from that day in August, we received the fateful call that would break and change us forever. Just a few hours after leaving the Emergency Room, I found myself in the observation stand, my insides ripped out, screaming at the heavens, railing madly against the sudden cruelty of Death.
It was the last place we had really been together; together in a way we had been so often before, when he was younger. Instinctively, I had driven there in a stupor, before sunrise. It was a grey, hopeless morning with scattered snow on frozen ground. Soon the sun struggled to break through- the slightest warmth- the faintest light- and I felt God’s hand on my broken heart.
I believe, in accordance with my faith in the resurrection of Christ and in all of God’s precious promises, that Ashton now dwells with HIM in perfect peace and joy, fulfilled and blessed beyond all imagination. That doesn’t mean I don’t cry nearly every day when I think of my lovely boy, feel a gnawing pit in my stomach and gasp for air when I think of what happened to him, and just miss him beyond description.
Jesus told me that faith- the narrow path- is hard. I am now fully aware how hard it is. To hope against hope, to believe in Life when drowning in death, is dreadfully, impossibly hard. Apart from His Spirit, the love of my wife and family, and what I now see as my duty and privilege to honor Ashton’s memory, I would have quit trying and ended my life long ago as I nearly did that first morning.
The place on which the stand is erected is now to me Sacred Ground. I pray, by the enduring grace and provision of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, we may own and improve La Cresta all my days and that whatever we do going forward will be an enduring and worthy testament to our beloved son, Ashton Lawrence Welch.
In one of life’s inexplicable coincidences, best explained in terms of the miraculous, we are meeting today- the anniversary of Ashton’s passing- with Rick, our architect, and a new General Contractor to discuss plans for the new home.
I pray those first, few feeble rays that shone on my broken heart this time last year, continue to rise, break through these dark clouds, and find their bright fulfillment in His grace. Whether we ever build or not, I know ultimately our Home is in Him, and with Him, where our precious son awaits.
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