CHAPTER 6
1470 Words
CHAPTER 6
By the time Sandy and Woong emerged from the church, Carl’s ambulance had already left. Kennedy knew there was no way to keep up with an emergency response vehicle with its sirens on, but she still wanted to get Sandy and Woong to Providence as soon as she safely could. She was glad for the chance to drive the two of them. Not only did it give her something practical to do, a tangible way to help in this horrific crisis, it would also mean she’d get the most recent updates on Carl’s condition. She couldn’t imagine having to sit and wait at St. Margaret’s wondering about Carl.
The paramedics had worked professionally and efficiently to prepare Carl for transfer. Nobody gave Sandy much of a prognosis, at least nothing more than the fact that he was stable enough to transport to the hospital, but Kennedy had picked up on enough nonverbal cues to fear that Carl was going to need more than some stitches and Band-Aids once he got to Providence.
Or maybe she was just being paranoid. It was a bad semester for someone she loved to get a head wound, given the fact that her neuroscience class was basically a crash course in the scariest, most horrifying types of brain injuries and abnormalities known to modern science. If you were a student reading a textbook or listening to your professor’s lecture, the subject matter was fascinating. If you were a young woman driving your worried friend and her scared-silent son to the hospital after her husband suffered some kind of traumatic head injury, it was a curse. Kennedy’s mind reeled with all the knowledge she’d gained, with all the worst-case scenarios floating around in her memory banks. It was one of those moments when ignorance could easily be compared to bliss.
Carl’s favorite local talk show was on the AM radio. The host was yelling angrily about the protests and marches feminists had planned against St. Margaret’s if the church didn’t cancel the Truth Warriors conference.
“What is it that’s so offensive to these feminists with their combat boots and camo pants, huh? What’s so threatening about a religious event whose primary goal — in fact, its only stated goal — was to teach men to be more humble, compassionate defenders of the faith? I’ve got feminist leader Sandra Green in the studio with me, and I know I, as well as many of you, would love to hear her answer to these questions.”
“Well, Chris, here’s what I have to say to that.” Sandra’s voice was low and scratchy, like a woman who’d chain-smoked for half a century. “We certainly have no problem encouraging compassion and humility in a Judeo-Christian setting. Even a gathering that intentionally excluded women wouldn’t be considered threatening as you put it if that was all there was to it. In other words, it’s not the stated goals of the conference that are troublesome. It’s the undertone, the subtext. The Truth Warriors movement assumes that anyone on this planet who presents as male has some type of divine right, some manifest destiny to subdue and subjugate anyone and everyone who presents as female. That’s what we find so disturbing. That’s why we urge anyone who ...”
Kennedy turned the radio off. When she stopped at a red light, she glanced over at Sandy. “Are you doing ok?”
Sandy nodded but her lip was trembling. She turned around to look at her son. “How about you, darling? Are you still my big, brave baby?”
In the rearview mirror, Kennedy saw Woong scowl and cross his arms. “I’m not a baby,” he mumbled, “and I’ve never been scared a day in my life.”
Kennedy tried to think of something to say. Sandy was always so good in situations like these. Always had the right words, the right encouragement. But now, Kennedy felt about as lost as all those boys in Lord of the Flies right after they crash-landed on their deserted island.
“Well, honey, have you been praying for your daddy?” Sandy asked Woong.
“Yes,” he grumbled from the backseat.
“Let’s do it out loud this time. It’ll make Daddy happy to know that we’ve been talking to God about him, and if the injuries are real serious ...” Her voice caught, and she coughed quietly.
“If the injuries are serious,” Kennedy finished for her, “our prayers can help him recover faster.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Woong mumbled.
Kennedy figured it was time to jump in instead of passively wait for Sandy to have a teaching moment with her son. “You shouldn’t talk about prayer that way,” Kennedy told him. “Don’t you remember when you got so sick last spring? It was God who helped you get better, you know.”
“No it wasn’t. It was the doctors. If it was God who healed me, he woulda done it without having to put that medicine in my arm that burned every time they made it drip into my blood.”
Kennedy realized that she probably wasn’t in the right emotional state of mind to dive headfirst into a theological landmine with an inquisitive boy like Woong.
“Well,” she tried again, “sometimes God uses doctors, and sometimes he uses miracles, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pray because prayer always makes a difference even if we don’t always see what that difference is.”
Even as the words came out of her mouth, Kennedy realized they lacked both conviction as well as common sense. Hadn’t she learned, hadn’t she matured enough to realize that those sorts of pat answers kids hear in Sunday school do nothing to prepare them for the trials and uncertainties of life?
But what else could she say?
Apparently, Woong’s brain was working at least as fast as hers and dissecting her haphazard arguments as quickly as she was able to voice them.
“So you’re saying God might make my dad get better if I pray, but he might not. And maybe he’ll do it by some miracle, or he might just let the doctors do what they’re supposed to do anyway. So what’s the point of talking to Jesus about anything at all if he’s already got his old, stubborn mind made up?”
“Woong,” Sandy snapped and turned around in her seat. “You don’t ever talk about our Lord and Savior that way, you understand me, child? If your dad were here and he heard you talk about his precious Jesus like that, what do you think he’d ...”
“Well, Dad’s not here.” Woong answered back with just as much vehemence in his squeaky, little voice. “He can’t hear me say things like that because ... because ...” He sniffed loudly and tried to choke down a small sob.
Sandy let out her breath. “Oh, my sweet baby, it’s ok to be sad. It’s ok to be worried about Daddy. I’m worried too, son.”
Woong was crying softly with his fists balled up against his eyes.
“It’s ok, little pumpkin,” Sandy crooned and then began to pray. “Oh, dear sweet Jesus, comfort to all who mourn, protector of all the weak, the one who grants peace and courage to the scared and helpless, you are my King. You are my shield and my fortress and my salvation. You are the stronghold of my life. But I confess that even though I know these things about you, I don’t worship you the way I should. I’m so frail, so easily given to fear. But I will yet praise you, my Savior and my God, feeble though my worship is. I bring it to you, Lord, all of it. The fears, the doubts, the dread. Father, you know just what’s going on in my Carl’s body. You know exactly what needs to be fixed, and you know exactly how to do it. So go now and heal him, Lord Jesus, please. As much as we might try to be brave, the truth of the matter is that Woong and I just wouldn’t know how to live without that man. So go be with him now, Lord. And while you’re healing all his wounds, come and fill us up in this car with your presence, too. Fill us up with the joy of your salvation, the joy that comes from knowing that neither death nor life, neither the past nor future, neither angels nor demons can separate any one of us from your perfect, eternal love. We ask this all in Jesus’ name, and we give you all the glory and power and praise. Amen.”
Sandy reached back and rubbed Woong’s knee. Kennedy couldn’t tell if he was still crying or not. She didn’t hear anything, but she had to keep her eyes on the road as she pulled in front of Providence Hospital.
“Do you want me to drop you off at the entrance and Woong and I can come find you after we park?” Kennedy asked.
Sandy stared out her window. “What’s that? Did you say something, sweetie?”
Kennedy repeated herself.
“That sounds like a good idea.” Sandy still hadn’t answered the question, but Kennedy assumed she meant that she wanted to be dropped off. She pulled the Lindgrens’ Honda in front of the emergency room exit.
“Woong and I will be right behind you.” Kennedy gave Sandy’s hand a squeeze before she got out. “And I’ll be praying for you. I’m sure Carl’s going to be just fine.”
Sandy frowned and said in a whisper only Kennedy could hear, “I wish I could be so sure of that myself. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
- Writer
