We crossed the lake.

This will probably be my last note to you, snowmobiler from Lac Morency. I told you in my first letter that I wanted to go back to the lake to finish crossing it. I wanted to do it for over five years.  I envisioned a big crowd of people joining us in the celebration of life and crossing the lake together, snowmobiles and all. I attempted to plan it several times, and I'd get so excited, staying awake at night thinking of going back and celebrating. I guess deep down I was hoping that many people involved in the rescue and --  you -- would be there.  Living far enough from this place made it complicated for those plans to go through.  I also came to realize that the word "celebration" was not what it would mean for many people from the community of Lac Morency, many who perhaps didn't want to remember.

But my husband and I, we couldn't forget, it has shaped our story, we are reminded of it through the residual pain. Our family and friends also remember. So finally, we just did it, on the second day of 2019. Seven of our family members joined us, on very short notice.  No crowd, no media, just us.

It was a beautiful sunny day, so nice and warm. We went across the lake to St.Hippolyte and stopped at the grocery store like we did that night 6 years ago. We checked out the church in town; it was closed this time, but for some reason, on that night in 2013, it was open, we'd stayed there for an hour, talking, before starting to cross the lake just before you did...

Then our lively group went back across the lake which is the part that we didn't get to finish in 2013... I was excited through the whole journey, chatting away, remembering. At some point I was recalling the details of that night, excitedly, when everyone got quiet and came closer.  "Are you ok?",- asked my brother. "Yes. Why?" "We are surrounding you" said a cousin. That's when I saw two snowmobiles approaching us. I was surprised that I didn't even hear their roar.  Then again, they were going much slower and quieter than you guys did. So I had to say several times that the snowmobiles that hit me, 'they really drove faster than that', lest our crew thought that we'd made the whole thing up.

Then we came to the spot that we figured was where you'd hit me (we didn't quite agree on the exact location, but I could't argue with my husband because I was looking around from the ground after my encounter with your machine).  We popped a bottle of champaign and we raised a toast to celebrate Life. We sang Come Thou Fount a song of praise, the same that we uttered that night while waiting for help while my husband tried to keep me awake, the song we had sung just a week before on our wedding day. The language of the lyrics is old, but it so well describes our experience on Lac Morency, from that night in January 2013, until the day we offered praise and thanks to Jesus at the same place...  Ebenezer is a Stone of Help put in the place where God came to the rescue.  That night, He did, and I can't deny it. When my strength was gone but I was still conscious, I started to call Him by name: Jesus, Jesus! -- the only One I knew who could save me. He sent help. So here I raise my Ebenezer...

I felt like I needed to feel something special, or grieve, but mainly, I felt excitement. It's been a long journey, and so much freedom from fear has come. Back when I first arrived in the emergency room I asked the doctor if I could walk again, and he said yes. "Can I have children?" "Yes".  Here we were, six years later, skiing, with our precious gift of life in a backpack. After delivering our baby in 2017 my husband and I felt that we had reached a new "before" and "after" in our story, it was Life celebrated, Love that cast out all fear.  I always wanted to know if labour pain would be as unbearable as it was for me that night on the lake, after my femur, both tibias and fibulas, knees and ankles were shattered. I am happy to say that it never got that bad during labour, intense as it was.

No guilt in life, no fear in death...  This was another song my husband and I whispered that night. It could have become my last song, instead it is our hymn of life. Each day is a gift.

After a few minutes of remembering and singing at the place of our distress, my baby looked at me and started crying. It was time to get off the lake, time to celebrate life, to be in the present.  I stayed behind, alone, for a few more minutes... Two more snowmobiles passed by. No fear.

I know I will likely never hear from you. I want to tell you this: God loves you. Jesus Christ lived and died and He lives forever. He has already come to the court room and took the consequences of your action that night upon Himself. He went to jail for you. He paid the price of all the medical bills. He gave His life on the cross for all of your and my transgressions. He is now waiting for you to come to Him so you, too, can be free from fear, free from guilt, free from shame. In Jesus there is now no condemnation. He will show you the way to His Father's heart and His home. In our Father's house, there are many rooms. I hope and pray that you and I will finally meet there, face to face.

I forgive you snowmobiler.