At 4:30 pm, the countdown starts. 30 minutes. Two pick ups. Two children to get changed, fed and to ballet, gymnastics, tap, or Girl Scouts’ across town. I survive it most afternoons…. barely. But there’s no time for error or detours, not even to get gas.
In the midst of the carpool chaos a few weeks ago, I noticed that dreaded light. Quickly, I racked my brain trying to remember when the gas light went on. How far do I need to go to pick up the second child and get to gymnastics? Is there another gas station on the way? Do I have enough gas? Or enough time to stop?
“Mommy, what’s wrong?,” asked my four-year-old from the backseat.
“Mommy is running out of gas,” I replied not realizing the humor in the statement.
“Don’t worry. God will push the car,” responded by four-year-old trying to ease my fears of being late or getting stuck on the side of the road.
I laughed. Then stopped recognizing- “yes, He will.”
Since December, I’ve been running on empty.
My “light” went on around Thanksgiving. We were rushing to get to my four-year-old’s Thanksgiving show early enough to get seats. Plans for a massive Thanksgiving feast were already underway. Our calendar was packed with parties, school shows, and church events. It seemed like a break from a year filled with cancer diagnoses, surgeries and hospitalizations amongst our family members. Before I could even sit down, my mother grabbed my arm. “We need to talk. Your uncle’s lung cancer is back, and he’s been given a few months at most.”
A few months turned out to be a few weeks. Instead of gathering around a table sharing delicious food, laughter and jokes (often at my uncle’s expense), people came and went hagared and tired as we took turns visiting my uncle in the hospital. He came home but then returned to the hospital before Christmas. All those days merged together. Wake up. Check phone for updates. Get dressed. Kids to school. Work for a few hours. Go to the hospital. Back to work. Back to hospital. Go home. Kiss the already sleeping girls goodnight. Go to bed. Wake up and repeat.
My uncle taught me how to play basketball. He showed me how to throw punches and stand my ground because girls shouldn’t be docile wallflowers. He gave me my first beer (an unattended can of beer left outside while he went inside to get some burgers to grill) and taught me how to lose…. at Monopoly. I’ll never know where that extra stash of cash hidden under the board came from. He may have cheated every game we played. But ultimately, he couldn’t cheat death. My heart broke.
Throughout those months, my grandmother’s health was also declining. My mother and I took the girls to see her in July before my oldest started kindergarten. We wanted to make sure they had another opportunity for them to exchange hugs, mischievous smiles and secrets. We were so uncertain about what the future held if she would make it to her 99th birthday on December 9. I knew the phone call was coming. It came in early March. She lived 99 gloriously blessed years filled with so much love. It still was a crushing blow. I was empty.
What kept me moving when I was empty? God. I was able to seek comfort in Him and answer those hard questions posed by my inquisitive children who were devasted about losing a beloved uncle in his early 60’s and a great-grandmother- the only adult whose love of laughter, candy, ice cream, sparkly accessory, bright nail polish and singing Christmas decorations matched theirs. “They are now living in God’s house. If you live a life full of love and kindness by showing respect and helping others, then you too will return home to our Father.” Through tiny tear choked sobs, they heard me. When it was my turn to cry, I found a tiny hand rubbing my back and telling me that “It is okay. I miss them too. We will see them again.”
Psalm 8:2 says, “Out of the mouth of babies and infants, you have established strength.” I couldn’t agree more. The reminder that “God will push the car” from the mouth of my baby provided me comfort, relief and some much needed perspective that we’re never alone and never given more than we can carry.
