The Drive

We have outgrown our five-seater car, with the seven of us thigh-to-thigh, baby bouncing on my lap in the front seat. Neighbors grin when they see Swede’s blond hair flying and chubby hands gripping the window, trying desperately to ride like a dog in the front seat with her tongue wagging. The wrestling to pull her back inside is a game she likes very much. 

Tonight as we drive home, however, the kids are hushed. Our windows are rolled down to keep the glass from steaming up and rain pelts unlucky arms and foreheads. The kids are half-giggles and half-moans. I throw back an extra baby blanket for them to shield themselves with. All light is gone except for the thin fingernail of a moon. 

As I juggle a tired-hyper baby in the front, my stomach gurgles. I had greedily consumed more curry than normal at our friend’s house. The delicious pleasure with which I had inhaled the mysterious contents in the spiced gravy turned into all regret as my belly spun with each curve in the road. I sat in silence and dread, my mind plotting out the best way to puke with a baby on my lap and a storm raging outside. I didn’t want to let loose in someone’s storefront or get run over by an entitled cow. Both were real obstacles. My eyes scanned the road ahead for a hidden cove to release the unfriendly contents of my stomach.

All of a sudden, thunder cracked so violently that I expected the ground to open and swallow us up. Or for a tree to split and crush us. I waited for the rounds of tears to begin. To my surprise, a small voice piped up under the baby-blanket tent in the backseat. Lucy, in a clear, calm voice, began to tell her siblings about David killing a real bear and lion, about Joseph’s pretty coat that made his brothers’ mad, and about the Paul that used to be a bad Saul. 

Lucy’s audience was glued as she spoke with conviction. Her voice rose and fell in all the right places. After telling of David’s victory against Goliath, she warned that David also did some really, really bad stuff. Taking pity on King David, she reminded them that we’re all bad. Concluding like a weathered preacher, she proclaimed with certainty that only Jesus is good. And so the car ride went. Downpour, thunder and lightning, and one small voice telling the truth. 

Lucy’s name means light and on that dark night she flooded our miniature car with bright rays of sunshine. 

This isn’t the first time that I’ve been ushered into the presence of God by my children. Just the other day, I was weepy over all the losses my kids experience because of our decision to live on the other side of the world. I was on a date with Moses and without any prompting, he said, “Mom, I like that we travel to new places. We make a lot of really good memories.” I felt a thousand bricks leave my back.

The stories are growing. Little prophets with dirty hands. Psalms 8:2 says that God ordains praise from the mouths of infants in order to silence the enemy. Perhaps this is why the Lord welcomed these quick-to-believe babes into his arms and why their angels are said to always see the face of our Father in Heaven (Matt.18:10). Certainly, I am helped by having my hands full of them. 

It is not due to their innate goodness or because I spanked them the proper amount in their terrible-twos. It’s the Holy Spirit at work in surprising vessels. 

After the shepherds came to see baby Jesus, Mary was said to have treasured all these things in her heart. Truths so beautiful they needed to be carefully packaged and put away for another day. Precious, priceless truths about God that require a lifetime of meditation. 

The picture of my nine-year-old inviting God into that dark drive is one that I’m keeping for the days to come. I ache for the sunshine of faith, the special sight that can see what fleshly eyes find invisible. When the thunder shakes the ground underneath my feet, I want what comes out to be a song.