The Wounded Tree, the Forgotten Ditch, and the Memory of Grace

PART ONE: THE TREE AND THE ROAD

On Easter weekend, in the quiet coastal community of the Hills of Neskowin, a car crash nearly claimed the life of Danny—a beloved 38-year-old man with Down Syndrome. What followed wasn’t just a miraculous escape. It was a revelation of how deeply connected we all are, and how healing arrives—often quietly, unexpectedly, and just in time.

One of the trees outside my house caught the car, absorbing the worst of the impact. It was left gashed—leaving a huge wound with no bark to protect it. And while Danny walked away with no visible injuries, the tree’s wound was visible, fresh, and weeping as it tried to recover.

Just like Danny, the tree survived. Danny cried when he emerged from the car, and he cried again when he told his story for the podcast. He is a vulnerable adult who needs to be heard. His video was poignant, and his trust in God was amazing. In the podcast, he thanked God for protecting him and blessing him, and he often listens to his ‘Calm’ app while working on his ball stats—a peaceful rhythm in his daily life. And just like him, the tree will need time, care, and patience to heal.

PART TWO: THE FORGOTTEN DITCH

In the wake of the crash, no one from the HOA came by. No board member. No phone call to ask how I was doing, even though I was the one who called Jeanene mid-air as she flew to South Africa. Even though I helped arrange for Danny’s care, comforted Melissa, and tended to the tree.

But the next day, I saw something interesting. Lowell Brown, who I had assumed reported me to the HOA, was repairing the gravel near MaryLee’s ditch. Quietly. Methodically. On his own. I thought perhaps she had asked him to—but I later learned she doesn’t even remember who he is.

MaryLee’s story is another kind of healing. While I won’t share her full medical story out of respect for her privacy, she experienced a serious health scare in the past year that affected her memory and led to changes in her life. Since then, she’s shown remarkable signs of recovery, with moments of clarity and joy that reflect how healing can happen in unexpected ways. I shared information about Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome with her—not because her case is identical to Melissa’s, but because the threads of healing, medication, and memory are woven through so many of our stories.

Still, a year later some things are lost to her.

PART THREE: MEMORY AND FORGIVENESS

MaryLee once brought me flowers on my first day in the neighborhood. I remember her saying, “I think you and I will have fun getting into trouble together.”

Our trouble was good trouble: beach walks, shared laughter, and dinners at Hawk Creek. That memory still holds warmth.

We live in a neighborhood that forgets sometimes. Forgets who it is. Forgets that healing doesn’t just happen in private. It happens in presence.

And yet, there are signs of remembering. Like Lowell with his rocks—oddly shaped stone barriers placed in ditches throughout the neighborhood, his quiet and often puzzling attempt to manage erosion in his own way.

Like MaryLee’s unexpected recovery—and her comment to me after reading the account of the car crash: ‘What a whirlwind! Your head must be spinning!!! Thank God you were there for Danny. I hate to think what would have happened to him for the night. Feel bad for Melissa too. . . Who’s Lowell Brown?!?!’

PART FOUR: MELISSA AND THE BODY

Melissa, Danny’s caregiver, has a story too. She lost control of the vehicle and has no memory of the crash. Out of respect for her privacy and the ongoing legal process, I won’t go into full detail here. What I can share is that she’s facing a deeply human moment—one that includes recovery, medical complications, and emotional overwhelm. These are not excuses, but they are important context. Addiction recovery is rarely a straight line, and Melissa is doing her best to face the consequences while seeking the care she needs. That deserves to be held with both honesty and compassion.

She had a UTI, only discovered by the ER staff after the crash. Combined with prescribed blood pressure medication and possible hypoglycemia, her disorientation that day may have had medical underpinnings. These are the kinds of scenarios that make Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS) very real—something I understand well as a psychologist.

As a precaution, the police issued a no-contact order between Melissa and Danny. But Danny, always compassionate, continued to text her out of concern. Melissa blocked him to respect the order, but she reached out to me to say she is seeking help and wishes peace and healing for them both.

She will not return to our lives, but I hold space for her to heal, too. Jeanene, Danny’s mother, also expressed to me that she does not wish for Melissa to be arrested. Her compassion, even in this difficult moment, reminds us of the deeper humanity at play. It’s complicated, like many human stories are. And it is also part of the healing path—learning when to step back with love.

After the crash, I walked Danny through the scene slowly. Later, he took his sister on the same tour when she arrived. This kind of debriefing is essential—we know it helps. That’s why airlines have critical incident teams, and why the Red Cross sends psychologists to disaster sites. Because telling the story helps us reclaim it.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been the one to step in when things unravel. It seems to be my role—like a neurotransmitter between broken places. When Cindy was recovering from major surgery, her husband Mike was driving her home from a post-op visit on an icy day when their car slid into the ditch outside my house—yes, that same ditch. I happened to be working at my dining table, which gives me a view of both the ocean and the road. I saw their car go off, and within minutes I had my cleats and blankets. I keep spare cleats for emergencies, and wouldn’t you know it—one pair fit Mike’s very large feet perfectly. I wrapped Cindy in a blanket and carefully walked her home while Mike waited for the tow truck. Sometimes it’s not dramatic, just quietly vital.

PART FIVE: EASTER AND THE CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS

Today is Easter. The day we remember that life does not end in the grave. That wounds do not have the last word.

We are not just bodies. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. And sometimes, trauma pulls us so far from our center, we forget that.

But grace remembers.

The wounded tree outside my house is weeping sap. Danny is slowly laughing again. MaryLee is remembering the names of her friends. Melissa is trying to find her next step. And I am still here—waiting for the first neighbor to ask how I’m doing.

This is the human part of me—the part that needs affirmation—even though the Soul part of me knows that God is always there for me 24/7.

To be fair, Jeanene has thanked me profusely. Moms need to be heard too. Jeanene was in South Africa as a gift to her grandson, while at the same time tending to her son Danny from thousands of miles away. Hers is a quiet, maternal love—the kind that spans continents and crises. It reminds me of another mother on Easter—Mary, who stood by her son through the most excruciating pain a mother could endure. That kind of love is enduring. It stays, even in silence.

Jeanene and I texted back and forth a lot while she was on the plane and after she landed in Cape Town. I sent her photos and updates, and she coordinated with her children to care for Danny the next day. She said, ‘Not sure how to repay you, but thank you so much—and I hope you still get to go to yard sales.’ She knew I had planned to go with Jon and Phyllis to the Coastal Garage Sale gala, but of course, that got scrapped. But Jeanene remembered.

And Dr. Theresa has responded to my texts with facts and insights on the issues—her way of showing support, which is so perfectly her, a retired medical researcher with a steady presence. She also sends us daily photos—of sunrises, elk, and other glimpses of our Pacific paradise.

These two women have been steadfast friends in the neighborhood. They are beacons of hope to others—when they are ready to see.

PART SIX: GRACE FINDS A WAY TO HEAL

This isn’t just a Hills of Neskowin story. It’s a human one.

So today, I invite you—wherever you are—to do what Easter calls us to do:

Remember. Forgive. Heal. Love.

And when you see someone tending to a wounded tree, or a forgotten ditch, or an injured soul—step forward. Say something. Lend a hand.

Because we can all be part of the healing. We just have to remember who we really are.

God works in mysterious ways—and on Easter weekend, no less. The connections among us all are suddenly visible, just beneath the surface, waiting to be seen. Melissa and MaryLee, their parallel paths of recovery. All of the moms—Cindy, Jeanene, MaryLee, and me—each holding a thread of maternal love. The doctors’ steady hands—Dr. Theresa and Dr.Kathy. Danny, right at the center. And me again, in my strange, sacred role as the neurotransmitter. Even Lowell and Theresa Springer and me, circling around the infrastructure problem—almost together, but not quite.

And yet, maybe that’s enough for grace to find a way in.

Because this is Holy Week. And Holy Weeks don’t happen in cathedrals alone. They happen in ditches, in driveways, in kitchen text messages and between neighbors who haven’t yet spoken. They happen in cleats trudging across ice, and in the steady weeping of a tree, and in the whispered prayers of a man who listens to his Calm app while working on his baseball stats.

Grace finds a way—in the messy, miraculous middle of it all.