CHAPTER 10
1100 Words
CHAPTER 10
Kennedy had never spent so long praying for one person before. She’d always had a nagging suspicion that interceding for others was a lot harder than certain pastors and Bible study leaders made it out to be. Even so, she never guessed how exhausting it was to spend that much time in focused, fervent prayer. Kennedy figured they’d prayed at least forty-five minutes and maybe a whole hour, interrupted only a few short times when the nurse popped out to let Sandy know what was happening. Carl’s condition hadn’t changed. Once he got stabilized on the ventilator, the doctor wanted to monitor him for a little while longer in the ER and then send him to the ICU. Sandy took the news with her typical grace, but Kennedy wanted to jump up and scream to the entire hospital that it wasn’t fair.
Carl shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be on a ventilator. He couldn’t be. He was so strong. It wasn’t as bad as the nurse made it out. It just wasn’t possible.
And each time the nurse left, Sandy would invite Kennedy again to pray. Woong had gotten past his clingy stage and was antsy, so Kennedy showed him how to play Scrabble on her phone. The battery died just a minute before they ended their prayer. If it hadn’t, she had a feeling Sandy could have gone on for another full hour of devoted intercession. As it was, the fact that her phone battery held its charge for even that long was some small miracle, or at the very least an unusual and unexpected blessing.
Sandy stroked Kennedy’s arm and smiled gently at her. “Thank you for praying with me, sweetheart. It did my soul a world of good.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Kennedy was trying to guess if the softness in Sandy’s features was just her regular, warm expression, or if she really did look different after their time in prayer together.
Sandy stood up with a quiet groan. “I guess I’d better go ask the nurse if there’s any news. Maybe we can go back and see him soon.”
Kennedy was afraid Sandy would ask her to come, too. Of course, she’d go if that’s what Sandy wanted, but the thought of seeing Carl so weak, laying there paralyzed with a machine doing all his breathing for him, made Kennedy feel like she was about to suffocate.
Brain damage? Not someone like Carl. God wouldn’t let something happen that was so senseless. Such a waste. And because of what? Some hoodlum? Who would attack a person like Carl? Who would want to hurt him? All he did was love people. Love people, take strangers into his home, and share the gospel with everyone around him. Not the type of guy you’d expect to be walking around with a target sign on the back of his head reading attack me.
Kennedy squeezed her eyes shut. There was no energy left to ask God for anything. She just had to trust that he had heard her prayers earlier. Now all she could do was wait. Wait and try to offer Sandy some moral support. Woong, too. He’d been pouting ever since the phone battery died, but he was too old to play with the little toddler toys, and there was nothing else in the waiting room but magazines and TVs.
While Sandy went to talk to the nurse, something on one of the screens caught her eye. It was a scene from Harvard right outside the student center. She blinked so her contacts wouldn’t be so dry and tried to focus on the small words. She’d have to stand up. Just as well. It was time to give her legs a stretch anyway.
“I’ll be right back,” she told Woong and walked closer to the television.
“Harvard administration is trying to track down the culprits responsible for a slew of graffiti incidents across campus. It seems as if the attack is a backlash to a conservative newspaper article printed in the student paper, the Voice, in which a Harvard junior defends the traditional role of the stay-at-home mother.”
Kennedy stared at the screen with the same undivided attention as the fire chief in Fahrenheit 451 hunting down books to burn.
The camera switched to a shot of the outside of her dorm room, where ugly green graffiti sported a quote Kennedy recognized from her column. She wasn’t listening to the news anchor anymore. All she could hear was her pulse pounding in her ears. It was too much. Carl so badly injured, and now the entire campus was angry at her for daring to suggest some women might prefer to raise kids instead of chasing a career?
She pressed her fingers against her temples. She had a throbbing headache. Who cared if the anxiety meds kept her from having so many panic attacks if she had to put up with a migraine whenever she got stressed?
This was too much. Too much for her to focus on. It didn’t matter if someone hadn’t liked her article. The editor of the forum section had already warned her about that. She wasn’t on campus right now. Who cared what people said? It wasn’t like they were attacking her personally. They were just attacking her choice of words.
She glanced once more at the screen, thankful to see Channel 2 had moved on to some other bit of news. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it wasn’t about her.
Sandy had finished talking to the nurse and was with Woong. Kennedy returned to her seat, glad that her legs could still support her weight. “Any updates?” she asked.
Sandy straightened out the skirt of her dress, careful to avoid the bloody spots. “Well, they hooked him up to the ventilator without any problems. That’s a good thing. I was just asking Woong if he wanted to go back and see his daddy. I told him it’d be a little strange. There’ll be tubes and things since Daddy’s on the machine that’s helping him with his breathing.”
“I can stay here with Woong,” Kennedy suggested. She couldn’t picture any scenario in which it’d be beneficial for a young boy like Woong to see his father in such a state, at least not until he had more time to get used to the idea.
Or until it started to look like Carl would be on the ventilator indefinitely.
But no, that wouldn’t happen. He was strong. His body was strong. His spirit was strong. Aside from the diabetes and a little extra weight, he was perfectly healthy. The ventilator was just a short-term solution to a problem that would correct itself in a few hours. A day or two max, and Carl would be better.
He had to be.
There was so much more work for the Lord he still had to do.
- Writer
