Today is Easter. Jennifer woke me up at 7:15. Her voice filled with concern. “I’m bleeding.” These are not the words a husband wants to hear from his wife heading into her second trimester with twins. We thought to call Jennifer’s brother, Craig, who’s a doctor. They had a conversation of what to do next. After that call, we called our doctor. The answering service picked up. We gave them the appropriate info – name, situation, symptoms and where we are in the pregnancy. Our doctor called back within a few minutes. He asked us if we could meet him at his office in an hour. We couldn’t say “yes” fast enough. Easter Sunday morning with an emergency and our doctor can see us in person. One prayer answered! Amen.
I had a few minutes so I hopped in the shower. I realized how my life is changing as I showered. I prayed while I cleansed and cleansed while I prayed. I started to understand sacrificial love more than in the past. Husbands are supposed to be willing to die for their wives. They are supposed to be willing to lay themselves down for their family. I found myself praying for God to put it on me and not Jennifer. Leave the babies, leave Jen, take me if you must. And I meant it … as best as anyone can tell when faced with a hypothetical.
Jennifer’s Mom and Stepdad were staying with us. They came with us to the doctor. We arrived first. Then the doctor in his unassuming Jeep Cherokee. It was probably 5 or 10 years old. He unlocks the backdoor to the offices. We follow him. We all go into an examination room. Jen lays down. Pull up the top, pull down the waist of the prego pants (prego pants are cool. They’re like jeans meet sweatpants. Might be a market beyond pregnant women. Maybe for gluttonous men). The staff forgot to unplug the heating pad that warms the gel for the sonogram. A mistake that worked out in Jen’s favor. A moment later, a hive of gel is on Jen’s abdomen. The sonogram reader mushed into it. We see one fetus and observe it’s heart beating. Then the other fetus spinning a whirling dervish … that one will be the problem child. The doctor turns on the audio. The heartbeats throb. It sounds like the bass drum on a child’s first drum kit. The kids are alright.
On the way back home, we were passing church. I got out at church. The rest of the family headed home. Church felt like home. It felt safe, secure and place of promise and peace. I hung out. Shot the breeze with folks who were preparing for the service today. Then practiced with the choir.
Jennifer and the family arrived, her mom, stepdad, sister and brother (in law). The crowd grew. The energy was wonderful. We had music on the steps of our church. A mariachi band. An indulgence of our pastor. Coffee, donuts, sausage rolls (think big pigs in pokes) and homemade cookies abounded. The atmosphere was joyous. When everyone entered the church, people were packed like sardines, over 80o people … a good thing for a church that’s 6 months old today. The band rocked, the choir sang, the congregation clapped and we swirled and mixed with rising jubilation.
Jennifer and I couldn’t find a seat after we got off stage. So we found a couch. She laid into my arms. We closed our eyes. We listened to our pastor preach. “There is no situation, no sin, no pain that God cannot redeem.” He preached of the hope that we may find in Easter. Hope of renewal. Hope of redemption. Hope of life renewed. It was powerful. Moving.
Jennifer and I headed back to the stage with the choir. We finished strong with song. When the service was over, the atmosphere of the sanctuary was electric. People lingered and spoke loudly. Folks stayed longer than they normally would. Then slowly we separated. People heading to their respective Easter events. Dinners with mothers, brunches at a local restaurant, Easter beers, packing the maternity bag for when it’s time for a baby to come. A wide range. Life resumed. Hopefully with a shine, a hope, an renewed enthusiasm.
We met Jen’s family at a Mexican restaurant. I was expecting it to be packed, I was half filled with dreadful anticipation. That feeling you get when you’re expecting the punch to the gut, the slap to the face. We walked in and found tranquility. We enjoyed a lovely, if not slightly overpriced, brunch.
Heading out of the restaurant, we noticed a commotion. The patio of the coffee shop across the street had more life than usual. A homeless man was working the crowd. The crowd was laughing. We were looking at the patio when we heard a crunch. A wreck in the intersection. A person smashed up the rear signals of this SUV. They acted like they were going to stop. They then took off. The homeless man ran after the runaway car. He got the license plate number. The cops were called. He provided the plate info to the woman who was hit. Then he, a woman and another homeless guy went into the middle of traffic to clear the debris and broken glass from the road. It was a rare organic community moment in Dallas.
Jen and I headed to the car to head home. I opened the door for Jen to get in the car. She sat down. I closed the door. There was a broken beer bottle behind our car. I stooped over to pick up. The glass gathered in my hands, the homeless man came up to me. He described what happened with the hit and run. He was mostly upset about the runaway driver because the driver didn’t show any concern for the victim’s welfare. He was trying to stay at a flop house down the street. I offered to drive him there. We made room in our back seat. I went into a cute little boutique to dispose of the broken beer bottle I held in my hands. Then I got in the car to drive away.
I drove along. The man introduced himself. His name was Gregory. Then he asked if we knew the Lord (Welcome to Texas, my northern friends). We said we did. We drove to the flop house about 10 blocks away. The block was teeming with characters. We sat for 45 minutes while Gregory guided us through a bible study. We studied together. Shared our humanity with each other. Then he prayed for us. He had tears in his eyes. He was joyful and exuberant. Maybe he found redemption … hope … renewal as he pastored church in our car.
I asked him if he knew our church – we were a few blocks away from it. I described it. It jogged his memory. “Yes,” he said. “They were playing music out in front of it today.” He told us how he sat in the park across the street this morning listening to the mariachi music, watching us standing outside eating and celebrating. He wanted to come over. He felt embarrassed, ashamed of his clothes, his dirtiness, his smell. He spoke of how his Father urged him to go but he resisted. He received a formal invitation to join us. Jennifer and I told him he was welcome. Maybe next week, he’ll find courage to put down his sense of shame. Maybe he’ll find the strength to take the risk of being accepted as he is, as he looks, as he smells. Maybe we’ll have the grace and love in our hearts to welcome him.
Yesterday morning, when I heard the words, “I’m bleeding”, my first instinct was to turn to prayer and praise. That’s the first time in my life that’s happened. I found peace, hope and joy in those moments. I discovered confidence, thankfulness and grace. I’ve found that finding God is much easier when I invite Him in and keep my doors unlocked after the invitation is sent. He does the rest.
