What Child is This?

Besides spending an entire day with just me and my three girls on the odd occasion Bev allows herself to get away, there is probably no greater reality check for me each year then spending six days in Kelowna with a dozen or so 17 year old guys. This trip to the provincial volleyball tournament allows a small window into the vulnerable and very real world of teenagers. Between all the hours in the hotel, trips to Coopers, poker games (“ante up became a time out cheer somewhere along the line), devotions, shared suppers (thanks to the moms), terrible country music (do you know what your kids are listening to), Madden ’02 football, daring stories of double dates and secret loves (pull the trigger, baby), teenage angst and teenage language (“tight” “hella” and “tope” to name a few), you would be surprised to know we were all up there to capture a provincial title in volleyball.

Although it should not surprise me, it seems as if the memories off the court each year match or exceed the memories on the court. On the opening night as we all sat in a hotel room that already had a festering smell that any young man would be proud of, the question was asked that I still don’t know if I have the answer to:

“What is your deepest desire?”

At that point I was sure that for the next few days my deepest desire would be in pursuit of a large blue banner that had the words “Provincial Champions” written on it. And of course I knew that wasn’t my deepest desire, but it sure seemed like it. And after we lost a game that sealed our fate, I saw young men crying, lamenting the realization of a dream that came crashing down. Hard. And so did James.

After the game he needed to be taken to the hospital. We dropped the team off after the tough loss. We told them we were leaving shortly for the hospital and that they should eat and get some rest. When we came out of our hotel room, all of them were waiting by the bus.

As I usually do when I find myself in really uncomfortable times, I try to make people laugh. Correction. I try to make me laugh because thunderous silence sends chills down my spine. So when they asked for James to be taken back into the emergency room, I had a smile on my face when I grabbed a wheelchair. I didn’t really expect to be allowed into the backroom. And then a nurse waved me through. At this point I need to mention that hospitals make me sick, emotionally.

And that’s when I saw her. Them, actually. I was following this little green line, acutely aware of the stench of sickness and knew all was not right. I glanced up, hoping “fast track” really meant that. A young mom on her knees next to a lowered hospital bed, urgently looking around as her pale child, months old only, lay silently in front of her. I suddenly became aware of my own children hundreds of kilometers away. The hopelessness of the situation was obvious in the face of this mother: there was nothing she could do to help her child. After making eye contact with her for way too long, at the most two seconds, I put my head down and waited for the nurse to direct me to an empty bed for James. I quickly uttered one of Anne Lamott’s two prayers: “Help them, Help them, Help them.”

I saw them later, sitting in the hospital emergency room, the baby wrapped in a blanket lying in her arms. And I saw the blanket move and a nervous smile came across the mother’s lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you” is Lamott’s other prayer. I certainly wish I could tell you she looked relieved, that she everything would be fine. Would they experience Shalom or the shadow? I don’t know what happened. It was time for us to go.

But in that moment, I knew that my deepest desires had nothing to do with a round ball or a blue banner. A small baby lying in it’s mother’s arm? It was time for us to head back to our room at the Inn.

Reality check, please.