A few Fridays ago, I found myself riding shotgun in the cutest little crossover with my husband behind the wheel. We were heading north back home on two-laned little roads in the dark of a spring April night. Tired from the car-buying process, I found myself trying my best to stay awake to keep Alan company on the 3 hour drive home. Thrilled to be surprising our baby who’s not so baby anymore with her first car, yet melancholy to think that she was old enough to experience the freedom of a driver’s license.
Wasn’t 16 years ago yesterday?
On the night before she was born, I found myself driving a pick up truck with my husband riding shotgun. Belly bulging at the steering wheel full of our local seafood joint AJ’s deep fried everything and a baby ready to bust out, we were taking a little after dinner drive on a two-laned little dirt road in the dark of a spring April night. Tired from the being pregnant and all the process that entails, I found myself trying my best to not annoy Alan to death with my whining about how miserable I was with a body cavity full of another body and fried shrimp and hushpuppies. Thrilled to death to be soon welcoming a little tiny baby, with a nursery ready complete with Dreft smelling onesies and the cutest bedding, excited to exit this baby and have her experience the freedom to move her limbs about without a spleen or a bladder in her way.
It was yesterday, with a 16 year lifespan between.
A few yesterdays ago, there was a tragedy in Texas. As my heart tries so hard to make sense of that which my brain knows, the thought of the drive came floating out of my eyes. All those little girls, their rides to camp. For some, their last one. Jesus be near.
I imagine the loading up and the stress that inevitably brings. Playing Tetris with all of the luggage, the “did we remember to pack thes…” and the “don’t forget to get thes…”, making sure the alarm is turned on at the house, the backing out of the driveway and asking no one out loud, “did you unplug the iron?”
I imagine the car packed to the brim with camping accoutrements: THE trunk, the play clothes labeled with her name, extra underwear because those things grow legs when you take your own legs out and walk away, along with their other leggy counterparts socks; the bathing suits, the towels, the shampoo, the sunscreen that made her mama feel better although it would likely return just as full, the nightlight, the notebooks and pens, the Bible, a picture or two of her family and maybe even the dog, the lovey for nighttime hidden so tenderly so as not to embarrass the growing up, confident-ish little girl, the tiny tucked away I love you note in the bottom of the side pocket of the trunk from a mama who was already missing her girl before she was even sleeping on her bunk at camp. My lungs become rocks in my chest just typing that…
I imagine the little girl, full up of nerves in her belly so that she couldn’t eat the breakfast her mama tried to coax her to…the excitement all in that empty belly, too. The questions: “Who will be in my cabin?” “Will my friend from last year be there?” “Who will make sure all my stuff stays together?” “What if my counselor doesn’t like me?” “I can’t wait to eat s’mores every night at the bonfire!” “What if my bunk mate smells like chili dogs?” “What will they think about me if they see my little lovey I tucked underneath everything and hid in the deepest part of my pillowcase?” “What if I miss my mama and my daddy? Will they make fun of me if I cry a little bit?”
I imagine the mama and daddy, their bellies both empty yet full of all the feelings, too. Excited about endless opportunities for their girl, perhaps thrilled for a little alone time, nervous about leaving their baby in the care and trust of another, already counting down the days until they returned to collect their most treasured possession this side of heaven. Maybe I know and can imagine these things because I have received the gift of them, too.
Change moves at lightning fast speed. If you turn your head too slowly, you will absolutely miss it. Turn your head too fast, and the life that passes by will leave you whiplashed. There’s no other way but to keep your neck still and your eyes straight ahead, gazing for a time, the time you have right in front of your face, and you have to take it all in then. Because it stops for no one.
Until it absolutely feels like it does.
No doubt the world in which the parents of these tragedies now find their existence has come to a complete and blinding, blindsiding halt. There is no more drive left, at least for now.
My mind won’t let me imagine the drive back. It’s the Holy Spirit that whispers to me: just pray. Just pray for those mamas and daddies. Pray over those now empty beds. Pray for the holes in the hearts. Pray for the rescue efforts. Pray for the survivors. Just pray, even if a guttural groan is all the frozen lungs and fiery throat and wet eyes allow, because Jesus knows. He knows, He knows, He knows, and He weeps with us here left behind on the dirt of our Father’s World.
My mama heart aches thinking about what some of those mamas don’t even know to miss out on yet. And I pray for their future heart wounds that are sure to surface as the world slowly, slowly, slow as a snail on a track of sand begins to tell time again.
The clock unwinds for us all. At times, it’s faster than necessary, like the way my 16 year old girl drives…sometimes. Sometimes, it can feel slower than we’d like. Regardless, it drives right along. Time stops for no one.
Whether time is speeding through or seemingly stopping for a minute or even trucking along on cruise control for a bit, He is along for the drive home with us. And we needn’t worry about a thing we might have forgotten to plan for, what we might have left behind, the iron we didn’t unplug, or if others might laugh when they see our loveys or we somehow show our hurts out loud, because Jesus is thisclose. He’s right there. Gassed up. Ready for the ride.
And then, the only question to ask as we back out of the driveway:
“Jesus, will you take the wheel?”
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