An Extraordinary Turn of Events

What a morning. What an incredibly frustrating morning. We started out fairly early today. Maybe that was our mistake. Rather than missing the morning rush-hour traffic, we’ve been slogging along right in the middle of it. Not a well-thought-out plan. To make matters worse, the weather is atrocious. The snow started falling around 4 a.m. and has only intensified for hours now. The road crews can’t keep up. We’ve seen five or six cars on the side of the road or in the medians, and have even driven, or should I say crawled, past a couple of accidents. Welcome to Chicago.

But we have no choice. We have to make this trip today. We’re on our way downtown for an appointment with our priest. Today is the day we are presenting our baby to the Lord. It has to happen today. So here we are, Seth and I and our new baby, inching along in parking-lot traffic, in the middle of a snow storm. The frustration is all over Seth’s face. He can barely see out of the windshield. The defrost fan in our old Escort is barely blowing and just can’t keep up. In fact, the heater isn’t keeping the pace either. Thankfully, our precious child is sleeping peacefully in the car seat. He’s oblivious to all of this. In fact, I really needed to make a video journal of these recent days. But until we can afford a camera, I’ll just have to make due with my written notes and vivid memory. Should I miss any detail, I’m sure that Seth will fill in the blanks.

 

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What an uncanny week this has been. When we left the apartment eight days ago, I simply could never have predicted this series of events. There is no way that any number of childbirth classes, birthing-room tours or obstetrician consultations could have prepared us for the birth of this baby.

 

We shouldn’t have been traveling this late in Arie’s pregnancy, but there was no way around it. Due to some new Illinois law, we both had to present certified copies of our birth certificates to the social services department in order to obtain assistance for the baby. And we really needed that help, as my fledgling woodworking business isn’t making much money and we certainly can’t afford health insurance. So, after searching for my certificate in every likely, and unlikely, place in our apartment, we started the drive from Ottawa to my home neighborhood on the South Side of the city.

 

The little courthouse in the middle of town was the only place I could get a certified birth certificate. I had to apply in person. But we didn’t make it to the courthouse that day.

About midway along in our trip, Arie started to have contractions. She’d been having them off and on for some days now. However, it wasn’t long before she noticed that these seemed different. Naturally, she started timing them, and I started sweating. Sure enough, they were getting more frequent. And by the way she was squeezing my arm and punching the car door, I could tell that they were also getting more intense. Now what?

 

She had to stop. Now. But where? How could I find a hospital? We sure didn’t have a GPS navigation system in our ’89 Escort! Did we even have time for that? And then I noticed a Motel 6 sign. I sped to the motel and ran to the front desk to ask about a nearby hospital. As I was getting directions, Arie burst into the lobby, crying out in pain. We weren’t going to a hospital. The counter person called 911. At this point, the motel manager rushed from a nearby office. Quickly assessing the situation, she bemoaned the fact that their motel was entirely full. And the lobby was certainly no place to bring a baby into the world. All she could offer was the laundry room. We could get as comfortable as possible in there while we waited on the EMT’s. At least there would be plenty of linens if the EMT’s didn’t make it on time. They didn’t.

 

Arie’s labor was unusually brief for a first pregnancy. By the time the ambulance arrived we were already the proud parents of a wonderful baby boy. When the EMT’s came into the laundry, their faces couldn’t hide their surprise. Arie was resting quietly, propped against a wall, snuggled into some motel blankets. I was standing beside a laundry cart, its top covered with six or eight Motel 6 towels. In the center of this makeshift bassinette was our promised child, wrapped in common white bed sheets. He immediately drew the EMT’s attention. I’m sure I smiled broadly as they laid eyes on the center of our universe.

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It’s All about Me

I first noticed her as she was unloading her luggage from the car. She had barely started to lift a suitcase when three guys nearly tore it out of her hands trying to help her. When she finally stepped on to the bus, I knew why. She was drop-dead gorgeous. As she made her way down the aisle alone, there was no question in my mind that she was the most beautiful girl that I had ever seen. I can’t say that it was the color of her hair, the shape of her face, the way that she walked, or her style of clothes that made her look so incredible. Maybe it was all of them put together. Who knows? In fact, who cares? Regardless of why she looked that way, the fact remained: she was stunning.

Our group was leaving this Friday morning for a unique trip. Early in January, Webster Groves High School began to advertise a different sort of Spring Break get-a-way. While we would get to see some interesting places and sites along the East Coast, the emphasis of the trip would be on helping others. Over the course of eight days and five cities we would hand out toiletry items to the homeless, prepare and serve lunches in three soup kitchens, spend two days in activities at senior centers, and put the finishing coats of paint on a Habitat for Humanity home. And these were just the main service projects. Our head chaperone, Mr. ReLeaf, Chemistry teacher and Christian Fellowship sponsor, had assured us that there would be additional opportunities to offer our support to those in need.

At this point, I was in need of a way to keep from staring. As any red-blooded American teen, I was certain that I knew the name of every beautiful girl at my high school. It’s not like I was ever going to do anything with that information, but as one man said, “I have a dream”. And that’s all that knowing these names would likely be for me. I might learn a little about them, possibly sit near enough in a class or two to strike up some conversation, and maybe even begin a friendship with some of them. But to actually end up on a date with one, or call one my girlfriend would only be a dream. They were just out of my league.

It wasn’t long into the bus ride that the progression of the brave began. When she first walked onto the bus, many of the girls and a few of the guys said hello and introduced themselves. Then each of the girls spent a few moments chatting her up. As time wore on, the self-confident young men began to make further advances toward her. This was territory for those guys with all the skills, all the talent, and personality to spare. These brave few would dare to go where others feared to tread. And each of them made his best attempt.

One by one, my classmates and friends worked their way from his seat on the bus to where this wonderful young lady was sitting. I watched in admiration as they did their best to appear calm and with-it. I watched as each one did all he could to win her attention, to gain a time advantage over the others. Yet, none was able to keep her conversation for more than a few moments. This continual parade of willing lambs continued for the first few days of the trip. Then an interesting thing happened. With each passing day, fewer guys were showing their interest in her. They seemed to be less impressed with her unique beauty.

I too had begun to realize some things about her that I hadn’t noticed before. During our stops for lunch and dinner, she never seemed to like the chosen restaurant. In fact, even if she approved of the restaurant previously, once we arrived she would speak poorly of the service she received or of the way the food was prepared. Maybe she was just a picky eater.

When we stopped at the hotel for our first night’s stay, she made a loud sigh when someone called out “Holiday Inn”. She said something about preferring that hotel that serves the warm chocolate-chip cookies at check-in. Once inside, though she never said anything, she seemed to be perturbed that she would be sharing a room with one or even two other girls. Evidently this too was not the preferred method of travel for her. But hey, maybe she was just tired after a long day of travel.

Then again, maybe that wasn’t the problem. When we were handing out the bags of items to the homeless, she insisted on rubbing her hands with disinfectant every few minutes, and in plain view of the recipients. At the soup kitchens, she complained about the smell of the food and the length of time it took to serve all of those who came to eat. While in the senior centers, she barely said a word to the residents, and wrinkled her nose at the slightest hint of an unusual smell. Then at the Habitat House, forget the thought of her actually painting. She stood at a distance and boldly proclaimed all of the decorating ideas that she would bestow on this home if given the chance. And these are just the items that I remember. Since we’ve returned, others have mentioned some statements that they overheard her saying. To this point, no one remembers hearing her say a kind word during the entire trip. Maybe she was just struggling to adapt to her new school acquaintances.

As the bus made its way back into the school parking lot early Saturday morning, all of us were groggy from the lengthy trip. Yet at the sound of the air brakes, everyone began to stir, grab their travel items, and make their way to the side of the bus to retrieve their luggage. Many were mumbling to one another and smiling, sharing thoughts from the journey. Most were helping each other with their bags. Quite a few guys were shaking hands, slapping each other on the back, and generally noting friendly goodbyes. The girls were having their usual hug-fest. In the course of helping a wide variety of needy people, we had learned a great deal about ourselves. Except for the new girl.

Visually, she was still quite appealing. And yet she was leaving the bus alone. Not one guy was racing to carry her luggage. Few of the girls even noticed her exit; none invited her into the hug huddle. Lacking the interest and acceptance of her peers, she made her way back to her car alone. Somehow while attending a trip designed to reach out to others, she was leaving unaffected. I began to feel sorry for her.

Then I saw it: on the back of her car, just below the trunk. It was just one bumper sticker, but it seemed to say it all. It was yellow with black letters, and it simply said: It’s All about Me.

Then I really felt sorry for her. She was evidently living her life according to that false phrase, and the one she was hurting the most by living this error was herself. It was at that point that I determined to join the ranks of the brave. With the help of the Lord, I would approach this very pretty girl. Not to win her affection, but to somehow explain to her that life is not all about me; rather, life is all about Him.

Then He (Jesus) said to them all, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will save it. For what profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and is himself destroyed or lost?” (Luke 9:23-25, NKJV).