A Very Long Week

One of the families in our church has a 17 year old daughter and 4 year old quadruplets, all boys. In the time I have been here, this family has become something more than church members to my family, but that has been common for me with families with kids. Truth be told, I often prefer hanging out with the children and youth, and those of great ages, to dealing with those in between. Kids and old people are honest. They tell you what they think. When they connive it is to get their hands on a toy, or an extra piece of pie, not as an exercise of power to beat somebody up. In short, they are fun. I believe, unequivocally, in fun.
That is why I almost had a wreck on Tuesday when the mother of the quads called to tell me she and her husband had taken one of their little boys to LeBonheur for a CT Scan, and had to go back that afternoon for an MRI. Because Joshua had a tumor on the back of his brain.
I can't comprehend things like this. I stand firmly in the biblical tradition of grumbling at such moments. You know, the "We'd have been better off to stay slaves in Egypt than come out here with you" type grumbling. Which means, translated, "We'd be better off without you, God, if this is how you take care of us."
I had what I believed at the time was the worst pastoral situation I'd ever see in November, 1991. A grandfather in my congregation ran over the three year old granddaughter that was the apple of his eye, the joy of his life. The little girl was the child of his son, a young man who had suffered a brain injury on a job, and was left unable to function normally. So his parents bought a house trailer, parked it in their backyard, provided all of the hookups necessary to live, and moved their son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter into the mobile home, and began to provide for them. The little girl had ridden out to the field to feed the cows with granddaddy every day, but somehow, on that awful day, she got out of the back of the truck-chasing the dog, we thought-and in front of the truck when he stopped to open a gate, and she was too little for him to see when he got back into the cab. Pure hell. One little girl stopped breathing that day, but, believe me, all five people in that family died that day.
That day came rushing back to me as Joshua's mom told me what was happening.
At the end of an intense week, I am way past glad to be able to say that it sure looks like Joshua is going to be just fine. He has had his surgery. The biopsy isn't in yet, but the wonderful surgeon that is caring for Joshua has been as positive and encouraging as I've ever heard in 23 years of sitting with families listening to reports from surgeons. He is awake. He knows everyone he's supposed to know. He knows that nurses give shots, and so doesn't want any of them near him (Amen, brother!). His speech is unaffected. They never had to put him on a ventilator, and he was less than 18 hours in ICU after his surgery.
As all this unfolded, I went Israelite all over again. "Oh, yeah. Sorry about that better off without you business. And that better off in Egypt thing? Well, not so much." And Christian: "If it's all the same to you, let's just run with this Easter thing. And, by the way, thanks!"
Most days, the Footprints poem is cornier than I can bear. Then there comes a week like this one, and it makes perfect sense.
And thanks, again! Amen.