Here is the real story. Names were altered except for Tammy’s.

If you would like to listen to this story, click on this video down below.

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At the nearby nursing home, we were both enrolled in a CNA course. Their free training program to become a certified nursing assistant would last eight weeks. That’s where I met Tammy.

I envied her. She was tall, blond and gorgeous. She gave off the impression of being well-organized.

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Around 10:30 one morning, Mrs. Rogers gave us our customary break. Tammy stayed with me as the other girls walked outside to smoke. She wore one-inch heels (not that she required them), matching trousers, and a soft pink shirt. She pulled her golden hair high into a tidy bun. She never overdid it and always looked put together. She carried herself confidently, or so I thought.

 “Would it be possible for us to speak alone?’ She trembled when she spoke. Fighting tears.

“My father hates me, and I think I was adopted.”  She cried.  “I don’t look nothing like my parents.”

I was at a loss for words. All that came out was “Oh my.”

“For this job, I asked my mom for my birth certificate, but she refused to give it to me.” She lowered her head and really broke down.

She described to me how she was treated like an outcast by her family. Her father paid her no attention. Two of her children lived with their fathers. The other two with her parents. Her calls went unanswered, even by her closest sibling. It seemed as though she had no one.

All that external beauty vanished as she spoke. I saw her soul – wounded and shattered. At the age of 23, I was clueless about how to console her. So I just sat listening.

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After three weeks or so, Tammy invited Miranda, another girl, to hang out after class on a Friday. Miranda drove us home in her pickup truck. Tammy and Miranda’s sister, Sherry, rode in the back, while I sat with her in the front. The home roads meandered through steep slopes and curves. Miranda drove at a casual 80 miles per hour, as if she were racing. I held on to the door rigidly.

Tammy, meanwhile, was standing on the truck’s bed, joking, shouting, and laughing while waving to strangers in their yards. She did not fear anything.

We eventually got to her place. We chatted and laughed late into the night. Tammy had abandoned the program that following Monday. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I continued with the program.

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A few weeks later, I happened to see her while at a neighbor’s house. She was on her way across the freeway to the mailbox. On the dusty road where we both resided, I waited for her.

“How are you?” I inquired.

“I’m doing well. How about you?”

I said, “Good, good,” and then I stopped. “Hey, I wanted to tell you about that day those girls from the nursing home gave us a ride home.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Miranda was driving eighty miles an hour?”

“Really?” Her gaze expanded. “I could have been killed.” 

 I gave a nod. “But neither of them finished, so I don’t expect them to come back.”

Tammy grinned. “Well, I have some positive news. I called one of those psychic hotlines. She told me that I would meet a tall, dark stranger before Christmas. Given my boyfriend’s black hair and other features, I believe it to be Tom. Perhaps we will soon tie the knot.”

“That’s fantastic,” I smiled. “I’m glad for you.”

After a quick hug, she walked back down the gravel road to her house.

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Christmas hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a December day that was abnormally warm. I was preparing to go to work, dressed in my whites. While my brother and his friend Robert changed the oil in his car, I sat on the couch, smoked, and looked out the front window.

“Hi!” my brother exclaimed.

I watched Tammy’s red Cavalier zoom by in slow motion. As usual, she waved her arm out the window.

After extinguishing my cigarette, I turned, and suddenly there was a crash.

“Holy crap!” Robert shouted. “She was struck! She was struck!

“She got hit! She got hit!”  My brother yelled.

I ran outside and sped towards the highway, trying not to lose my breath. Already, cars were backing up. In an attempt to free her, my brother and Robert had opened the passenger side of her vehicle.

The small automobile was forced into the ditch after an RV crashed into the driver’s side. The grass was littered with white envelopes and mailboxes.

“I didn’t see her,” the RV’s driver repeated and paced.

I saw her body lying on the ground. In an attempt to console her, Tom’s father knelt next to her. Her golden hair matted crimson. Her little body was broken and trembling. Her eyes never opened.

I went cold. That could have been me. She was just 29.

Wake up. Wake up.

Paramedics arrived. A chopper touched down. They flew her away. I never saw her again.

I stood there contemplating. Drained. She met her tall, dark stranger, I believe.

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This is a real tale. Every name was altered, with the exception of Tammy’s. She had an incredible amount of potential and was authentic. She had an ambition of working in a trauma unit at a hospital.

Now, the dream seems tragically fitting.

I’ve carried this with me for years. I regret not having done more. When she most needed hope, I wish I had prayed with her, shared my faith, and introduced her to Jesus. Being young and recently baptized, I was unsure of how to proceed.

However, I have prayed to God for forgiveness. Don’t wait if you ever find yourself with someone who is lost. Speak up. Say a prayer. Share the truth.

You could be their only hope.