Five years ago today, I began and ended my day standing in two very different asphalt parking lots. Sixteen hours and four hundred miles of travel separated these two oceans of darkness. By the time my journey was complete, my entire life had changed, and I found myself stumbling to the car with no idea who I would be when I woke up the next day.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was not quite 10am. I looked down to see a text had come through. My mom sent a message to let me know that my sister was at the hospital. Nothing to worry about, she and my dad were going to make the two hour drive a little later that morning to check on her. I was standing in a circle of missionaries who were about to embark on a medical aid trip to Peru. We were gathered in the parking lot of Parkside Pediatrics in Greenville, SC praying for safe travels before loading into the buses to head to the Atlanta airport. Of the dozen or so going, I only knew a few of them. My friend Randy had reached out a few days earlier to ask if my church would be willing to lend our buses to help them get to the airport after their arranged transportation had fallen through at the last minute. I jumped at the opportunity and enlisted the help of another friend, John, to serve as the driver of the second bus. I brought my son, Emery, with me. Though he was only four years old, I wanted him to see what real heroes looked like. Everything was loaded, and we were ready to go when I got that message. The going to the hospital part did not concern me as much as it should have. My sister, Rebekah, had just spent some time in the hospital a couple of weeks earlier with some kind of unknown infection that she had since been taking antibiotics for. This seemed like a relapse that would likely need another round of investigation to figure out what was going on with her. My parents didn’t sound alarmed, so I slipped my phone back in my pocket with only a slight pang of concern. We said “amen”, everyone jumped in the buses, and we rolled out.
A few days earlier, my family spent a long weekend at the lake for my dad’s 60th birthday. We hung around the lake house reading books, watching movies, snacking, swimming, and fishing. We were grateful to have Rebekah out of the hospital after her initial scare with the infection. She seemed back to her old self paddleboarding, laughing, and catching more fish than me (as usual). She and her boyfriend, Brandon, gave my kids their very first fishing poles. That ignited a love for fishing in each of them that definitely didn’t come from me. We talked about the past, joked about the present (especially how grandpa was officially “old” now), and dreamed about the future together as a family. Everything was as it should be. I have a picture on my desk at work of me sitting in one of those lake house recliners with my three kids in my lap. I often look at myself smiling in that photo and wish that man still existed.
For most of the drive, I sat quietly in the driver’s seat of the old church bus listening to the sounds of the excited missions team in the back. Some of them entertained themselves by talking with Emery who was experiencing the best road trip of his young life. The text updates were “mom’s home from work”, “packing a bag in case we need to stay a few days like last time”, and “stopping for lunch real quick”. Our caravan also stopped for lunch at Chick-Fil-A. It would be the last time I ate that day. As we were preparing to pull out, John came over to my bus to let me know my dad was trying to get in touch with me. I called him back to learn that Brandon had called to let them know the situation was urgent. Rebekah had collapsed during the transfer from the gurney to her hospital bed. It was just after 1pm. They were installing a picc line. Dad wanted to know if I could turn around and come back. He would even pay to get me a plane ticket if need be. A plane ticket. For the first time, I allowed myself to come to the realization that this was serious. I don’t think I fully realized how much I had taken for granted that my life had been relatively pain free up to that moment. Nobody on my bus had any idea what was happening. We were less than an hour from the airport and Aiken was almost three hours in the opposite direction. I had a decision to make. It would be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.
I was never really good at baseball growing up. The game was boring, and I really wanted to play soccer. However, the Cheddar ballfield was close to home and there was only one practice per week. As a parent, I now understand the importance of limiting the nightly sports commitments. As a child, I tossed rocks in the outfield on the side where nobody ever hits the ball. Aside from the occasional strike-out, I passed most of the time on the bench without leaving the dugout. My sister would play in the sand outside the fence while my parents watched the game from the bleachers. My mom loves to tell the story of the game where I came out of the dugout for a different reason. Apparently, some kid -probably bored from watching their older sibling play the game- decided he wanted my sister’s little plastic chair and yanked it out from under her. Upon hearing her cry, I turned around to discover this little dimwit sitting in her seat. I rounded the corner of the fence and pulled it right out from under him like we were the last two in a rowdy game of musical chairs. I returned it to her and kept an eye out for him the rest of the game. Nothing and nobody messes with my sister. Not while I’m alive.
I cranked the bus. Everyone was ready to go. They had a plane to catch. There were duffel bags full of medical supplies in the back. There were people in the highlands of Peru who had not yet heard the Good News of Jesus Christ. My heart was wrenching inside my chest. With all my being I wanted to tell them I couldn’t go on. I needed to get to Aiken as soon as possible. I needed to come out of the dugout.
I prayed to God Almighty. He answered loud and clear. “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. And whoever does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.” These missionaries had been called by God to take the Gospel to the nations. They asked me to drive them to the airport. I put the bus in drive and pressed “resume route” in my navigation app.
The text messages kept coming. “She’s unconscious.” “They’ve put her on a ventilator.” I finally called out for my other friend, Graham, to come up to the front of the bus. I couldn’t speak from holding back tears. I showed him the text messages. All I could get out was “can you guys please pray?” He went to the back of the bus to let the rest know without Emery hearing the news. They prayed. I prayed. My prayer was “God, if it is within your will to heal my sister, that is what I want. But, either way, I only ask that you are glorified in whatever you decide to do.” That was the hardest thing I have ever had to pray. I pulled up to the airport terminal and everyone unloaded the buses. I said goodbye to my friends and they assured me they would continue to pray as they began their trip.
I called my wife, Lindsey, and we decided to drive to Aiken as soon as I got back to the church with the bus. The text messages were still coming in. “She coded but they brought her back.” “Hurry up if you can.” The drive back to South Carolina was excruciating. My son is still excited and talking a hundred miles an hour. He has no idea what is going on. My phone battery dies. I stopped for gas and purchased a charger. Twenty minutes passed before I could turn it back on. I braced myself as the missed text messages came in. “She keeps coding.” The two hour drive back was simultaneously the fastest and slowest two hours of my life. Emery’s presence and innocent conversation saved my life. God knew what He was doing by prompting me to bring him along for the ride.
By the time I got back to the upstate, it was after 5pm. Lindsey’s parents kept the kids while we began the two hour drive to the hospital in Aiken. She drove. I researched the symptoms on my phone, convinced that I could figure out what the dimwit doctors hadn’t been able to for the past month. I was going to fix this. I kept sending my parents ideas. Little did I know they were on the other end trying to decide how many more times they were going to ask the medical team to revive her. We were just thirty minutes away when my phone rang. My dad asked if I was driving and suggested we pull over.
As I write this, it is almost five years ago to the hour of that phone call. In all that time, I still can’t bring myself to recount what he said next. As a father, I hope I never have to say to anyone what he had to say to me.
I don’t remember anything that happened between that moment and the very vivid memory of walking up a ramped hallway in the hospital knowing that I was too late. The hall was lined on both sides with the tear-streaked faces of her friends and coworkers. Everyone was looking at me. My legs felt like rubber beneath me. The first familiar face I saw was my pastor and friend, Mike. I remember thinking, “Gosh, he didn’t have to drive all the way to Aiken.” (Years later, when he would go through his own tragic loss, I found myself driving to the hospital as fast as I could while finally understanding why he didn’t hesitate to be there for me and my family.) We all stood in the hospital room around her. There was a white sheet. No one really knew what to say. There was nothing to be said. We moved to the waiting room. Waiting for what? Reality doesn’t set in until much later. Weren’t we just at the lake the other day?
Just before midnight, I was allowed back into the room to “say goodbye”. I didn’t have the courage to look at her. I knew she wasn’t there. I numbly sat down in a chair beside the hospital bed. It seemed silly to say anything. All I could think was, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.” Her hand was visible from under the edge of the sheet. I could see the little horseshoe tattoo on her wrist. I tried to talk her out of getting that back in the day. Now, I just wanted a picture to remember that little part of who she was. So I took one. I don’t know why, but today I’m thankful I did.
My parents, my wife, and I left the hospital after midnight. We left her there. Standing in that asphalt parking lot huddled around what was left of my family, I remember thinking that if I got in the car, it would mean the nightmare was real. Are we supposed to drive home now? Are we supposed to just leave her there?
Five years later, I still don’t have a good answer for those questions. We stopped at a hotspot on the way home to grab a payday candybar for dinner. How useless and mundane is that? It hurt to chew and I could barely swallow. I haven’t figured out who I am if I’m not a big brother too. There is a gaping hole in my heart. It hasn’t healed. I’ve packed it with gauze so I can be all the other things I need to be: husband, father, son, friend, bus driver… just not brother. Someday, I’ll write about what I went through in the days, months, and years that followed. I just need to figure it out first.
Here is what I do know:
- Not turning the bus around was the right decision.
- God is still good even though he saw fit to bring her home.
- Through all the times I came out of the dugout in her 33 years of life, my sister knew that I loved her no matter what.
- The Good News of the Gospel of Jesus Christ gives me the assurance that I will see her again someday.
- The streets of heaven are paved not with asphalt but gold, and no tears will ever be shed over them.
1st Corinthians 15: 16-20
“For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised either. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied. But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.”