Finally, she put two year old Rusty in the back seat of their 1961 Corvair, and started the long trip home. She thought fondly of their time in Denver: Sonny had moved up here first, and had called her to come up and marry him four years earlier. Rusty had been born here. But there were too many times they'd had to hook up a 100 watt light bulb to an extension cord and leave it lit under the hood of the car near the carburetor, so that the fuel line wouldn't freeze. And there were more times than she could count when the young couple had been so homesick that they would get in the car after work on Friday night and drive 18 hours to central Texas, just to sleep a few hours at her mom's or his sister's house, then drive the 18 hours back late Sunday night.
That Memorial Day weekend, she would follow the moving van on the long trek southeast. She wondered how long the truck would go before stopping for fuel. She wondered whether she should pass the truck and get to Austin faster. How fun it would be to walk into the U-Totem convenience store where Sonny worked, and surprise him. No, she couldn't do that--all of their furniture and clothes were in that truck. All she could do was sit there and fight the tedious fight, watch the monotony of the broken yellow stripe that coursed down the two-lane state highway.
Suddenly, she awoke with a start. She had dozed off. The truck had slowed in front of her, and she was going way too fast! Glancing over her shoulder at her son sleeping in the back seat, she bit her lower lip and slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel too sharply. Then the world began spinning.
The truck driver noticed the wreck in his side mirror. The car rolled--three, four, five times before he could pull the rig over and get out. Assessing the situation, he saw pieces of the car strewn all along the highway. The engine was several yards away from the mangled body of the car. The young woman was struggling with her seat belt, beating her shoulder against the car door. By the time she got out, she was sobbing, crying, screaming, "My baby! My baby." The driver held her back, knowing that no toddler could have survived a crash like this. He looked again and saw the small, oil-covered body lying motionless six feet from the engine.
A fire truck showed up, then an ambulance. In hushed tones, the drivers had a discussion about which small town to take them to: Dumas, which was a little closer, or Dalhart, which was bigger. They finally decided on Dumas. Joy, who had a splint on her broken left arm, began to ask why they were going to Dumas. She had just driven through there, and there was nothing in that tiny little town. They couldn't go back--they needed to go forward, further on toward Austin, where her husband was. The paramedic soothed her, told her they would call her husband as soon as they got there.
Sonny got the call, and immediately called his mother-in-law. The two of them chartered a flight from Johnson City to an airstrip near Dumas. When he arrived at the hospital, he found a brand new children's wing that had just opened about two weeks before. But the news was grim: Mr. Stewart, your wife is going to be okay, but there's no hope for your son. He checked on his wife, then ran to the children's ward to find his son. He sank to his knees and prayed.
Many people started praying for that young family. A church in Denver. A congregation in Blanco, Texas. Family members on both sides. Prayers held that family together during the nine days that Rusty was in a coma. Prayers were lifted up during the months of therapy that followed--physical therapy, speech therapy, re-learning what most three-year-olds already knew. Joy's broken arm mended, and her lacerated lip healed. But what really took root during that time was a deep, abiding faith. She would become a pastor's wife--something she had never thought she would ever want. She didn't know how to be a hostess, but she ended up hosting countless parties at the church and parsonage. She didn't know how to pray, but the prayers of so many friends and strangers during that trying time encouraged her to become a powerful prayer warrior to this day.
That young mother became the fulfillment of Romans 12:9-13:
Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil, cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with God's people who are in need. Practice hospitality.This message is all about that woman, because she is my mother. I am the one who was sleeping in the back seat of the car that day 49 years ago, but she is the one who struggled to get to me. My father, who passed away last year, got there as soon as he could. But it was my mom who stroked my head and sang softly over me in the hospital bed. And it was her mom who suggested that they put liquid Jell-O in a baby bottle to feed me while I was in the coma, because she heard me moaning and "just figured he must have been hungry."
It was my mom that learned to tie her shoes one-handed while her arm was in the cast. It was my mom that was so patient with me as I was growing up. It was my mom that I learned to take my problems to--while Dad would try to "fix it", Mom would listen and understand. It is my mom who lifts me up to the Father daily, and prays me through every valley with hope, every mountain with humility, and every plateau with encouragement. It is my mom who smiles so much, people call her "Susie Sunshine."
Happy Mother's Day.
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