Have you ever experienced that Uber ride where the spouse or significant other is tagging along in the front passenger side? And of course, they’re in a chatty mood wondering all about you and what you’re in town for. It was the last thing that I was in the mood for leaving St Jude that day, but there was that couple in the front seat. I remember rehearsing my options: pretend I was on a call, actually get on a call, or just drown out the ride with a podcast or music.
To give you a taste of my headspace, I’m leaving William and Naomi behind again commuting back and forth from Memphis to home (Indianapolis) every week as my seven year old son’s brain and spine is getting radiated for his cancer treatment. Each morning I wake up, each time I leave my family in Memphis and my family in Indianapolis, and at several times throughout every single day of this journey – there is a common sentiment I’ve felt that is common amongst pediatric cancer families:
How is this even happening?
Trying to split time with my kids back home, while leaving William and Naomi behind was more emotionally taxing than I can put into words. Every goodbye is harder than the previous one. When you’re needed in two places, your heart is literally split as a parent – and commuting under these circumstances is truly traumatizing. Your heart is literally broken wherever you are. It is not ok that you are going through this – and it’s definitely not ok that your family is apart.
Needless to say, I wasn’t in a chatty mood and the last thing I’d ever thought would happen in that ride would be holding a stranger’s hands while praying. Prayer – and with strangers – was definitely not on the radar. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve said my fair share of prayers since this journey started, but the idea of prayer (and faith in God in general) gets highly complicated when you’re handed your child’s cancer diagnosis. Having written about the problem of evil and suffering (in defense of faith) abstractly and philosophically, I can assure you that experiencing it first hand (with your child) is infinitely more real and piercing. The believer and the skeptic in me collide with the question “how is this even happening?” more than I can relay. And at least for me, in going through this experience, I will give my takeaway:
It feels like God is further away, yet closer than ever.
Opening the back door, I jumped into the car and said hello (while considering my previously mentioned privacy exit ramps). Initially, there was just quiet, which I very much appreciated. I could tell there was something different about the folks in this Uber. They had picked me up at Domino House at St. Jude so they had what I assumed was a simple Uber driver’s curiosity from their St. Jude pickups. In a unique and heartfelt way, he asked me:
“Are you a St. Jude employee or a family?”
The way he asked me – the level of sensitivity and familiarity was striking. I explained to him that I was “a St. Jude family”, that my son was getting treatment, and relayed how appreciative St Jude (no bill, free housing, free food, exceptional care, incredible people, resources for families, etc.). Some other moments of silence followed and then the words “we know” – and it quickly became apparent that he was a former St. Jude family as he began to speak about his little boy who was just a baby when they received their son’s diagnosis. He also relayed all that St. Jude did for his son and his family during treatment. He then informed me that despite his son’s treatment:
They lost their baby boy when he was two years old.
Suddenly, I was the one saying “I’m so sorry.” I listened as he bragged about his son and what saying goodbye to your baby child was like. Still, for most of the conversation, he was asking about William and my family. He did nearly all of the talking and his wife just listened. He shared that he normally doesn’t talk about it, but there was something about me and today where he felt comfortable talking about his story. As we pulled up and the ride ended, I offered him and his wife St Jude bracelets that I had and they happily accepted and put them on saying “we’re all part of the St. Jude family.” And the last thing I expected then happened – his wife took my hand and said:
“Let me pray for you”
The prayer was immensely personal and meaningful – I was no longer praying alone, crying, screaming or grappling with God on “why”. I was receiving the most unexpected blessing of my life in the most unexpected place with very unexpected people. Perhaps that was God speaking back to me that I was not alone. I was amazed at their strength and the bond immediately forged amongst these strangers. I’d felt similar bonds with other families that have been through a pediatric cancer diagnosis, but an Uber was the last place I would have expected such a sacred experience. They lost their son to cancer, but their focus was on my son, me, and my family.
Since the beginning of this journey – and on that day – it would have been easy to sulk in my despair. But in witnessing the example on offer with William (“Iron Heart”) – and these two strangers on that fateful day – I was powerfully reminded of the hope that I still had for William. And, with William’s example every single day since the start of this – what true faith, resilience, and optimism look like. Perspective and hope are very powerful things, even when your faith in question.
Reflecting on that experience, it made me wonder: if I were in their shoes, would I had done the same? To that, I cannot say, but there is one thing that I am certain of: the most meaningful group prayer I’ve ever participated in happened on that day and for the rest of my life I will never forget how I was blessed by strangers in an Uber in Memphis.
Image credit: Humphrey M at Unsplash
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