Mother Of Prevention. Lori Copeland
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out now. I watched her skip from the room and wondered why I worried about her. I liked my job. I enjoyed the out-of-state classes I taught, but I worried. Should I go off and leave my children and husband, to fly to South Carolina for this meeting?
Was I neglecting my duties as a wife and mother, putting my job first? Our lesson in Sunday school this week had dealt with the woman’s role in the home. Boy, had I felt singled out.
Was I the only woman in New Freedom Worship Center who had trouble being everything to everybody? A superhero I wasn’t. I’ve always envied that Proverbs 31 woman whose husband and children rose up and called her blessed. When mine rose up and called me, it was usually because I was behind on the laundry.
I left the bedroom and hurried to the utility room to take the clean clothes out of the washer and throw them in the dryer.
I wished I could spend time with the kids tonight, talking and listening, but I was too busy to talk, too busy to listen. It seemed as if I was always rushed, making promises I had difficulty fulfilling. My “want to” kept running ahead of my “can do,” and I had enough guilt to fill Kelli’s little red wagon.
Neil was good to support me when I had to make these trips. It wasn’t the same as me being here, and I knew that. My husband’s retirement dream was sounding better all the time.
I went back to the bedroom to throw things into my suitcase. Thank goodness I had made a list. As I crossed off each item and dropped it in my case I felt a sense of relief. I was going to make it after all. I grinned at my lack of faith. I’d never missed a plane yet. But I always worried. Neil claimed if I didn’t have anything to worry about I’d invent something. Some days I thought he might have a point.
I closed the suitcase and went back to the laundry room. Kelli was down on her hands and knees trying to pick up a bug off the kitchen floor. One of those water roaches, I think they’re called, big, black and very, very ugly. I stared at the roach, and everything I had ever heard or suspected about bugs flashed through my mind. Dirty, creepy, crawly and disease-bearing. And Kelli was going to pick the bug up in her bare hands! The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
I shrieked, “Don’t touch that nasty thing!”
Kelli whirled to face me, lost her balance and plopped down on the floor next to the bug. At least the roach had enough sense to run for cover before I could dance the La Cucaracha on its helpless body. Kelli burst into tears.
Why had I screamed like that? I caught myself before I said anything more. We didn’t need a crisis tonight, and I recognized the signs of an impending one. Her eyes were as big and as round as gumballs. She was my sensitive child, and when I shrieked, which I did all too often, she panicked. I could see it welling in her eyes. Abject horror.
I reached out and pulled her close, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “Oh, Kelli, Mommy’s sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She sobbed, and the sound tore me apart inside. When would I learn to control my emotions? All my life I’d been frightened by anything that crawled, squirmed or got around without legs, which pretty well included everything in the insect and reptile families. Just the sight of something creepy and crawly was enough to cause me to hit the panic button. I hadn’t intended to scare Kelli; I just didn’t want her picking up the bug.
“Don’t cry, honey,” I soothed. “It’s all right. Bugs are dirty and they can make you sick.”
I marched her over to the sink, ignoring her protests. I wasn’t going to have my daughter getting germs or some unknown disease from playing with bugs. She squirmed, but I washed her hands twice with a strong disinfectant. Drat this old house—drat Neil for not calling the exterminator earlier. With any luck we’d have enough money saved next year to purchase a new home.
Kelli sobbed the entire time I scrubbed. “Bugs are nice, Mommy. They’re God’s helpless creatures.”
God’s helpless creatures? Where did she come up with this stuff? “They’re not as helpless as they look. I’m calling the exterminator the moment I get back.”
A look of pure horror filled her eyes. “The Terminator? For a little bug?”
Terminator? Arnold? As in Schwarzenegger? I stifled a laugh, wondering how I could explain the difference between an exterminator and a terminator to a five-year-old. Not that there was all that much difference between the two. My daughter was too tenderhearted to approve of either.
The phone rang and I lifted the receiver and snapped, “Hello,” thinking I’d hear Neil’s voice. Instead I heard the dial tone. I held the receiver out and stared at it. Someone hung up on me? What?
Kris called from the living room. “Doorbell.”
The kids weren’t allowed to answer the door. You heard such awful things about children disappearing that I was scared to death to let them open the door to a stranger. I hung up the receiver and hurried toward the living room. Telephone. Doorbell. Whatever.
I yelled at Kris to turn the television down from sonic to just plain loud. Why did it always sound like kickoff time at a bowl game around here? A little quiet wouldn’t hurt anything. I picked an armload of books and toys on my way to the door, dumping them in a corner of the couch before reaching for the doorknob.
I opened the door to find two men dressed in dark uniforms standing there. One was Neil’s fire chief, John Miller, and the other was one of Neil’s closest station buddies, Ben Burgess. I smiled and started to speak when I saw the grief in both men’s expressions.
My smile faded.
John spoke first. “Kate…I’m sorry.”
Sorry? I cocked my head. For what? I gripped the edge of the door. My heart must have stopped beating for a second, because my body suddenly felt wooden, heavy. His mouth moved, but I heard only scattered words.
“Accident…fire…stairway collapsed…lost two men…Neil didn’t make it out. So sorry.”
Ben had his arm around me helping me to the sofa. My legs felt rubbery, like those foam tubes children use in swimming pools. Kelli and Kris were hanging on to me, begging me not to cry. I tried to reassure them, but my voice failed me. Someone was weeping in great gasping sobs that seemed to come from some deep well of grief. That wasn’t me, was it?
“The high rise wasn’t in his district,” I cried.
“Sorry, Kate, we were called in.”
I saw my daughters’ fearful faces through a veil of tears. They clung to me and I held them close. Neil… Oh, God…Neil. The words ran through my mind like a prayer, but if God answered I didn’t hear Him.
John sat across from me, rolling the brim of his hat in his hands. “Who’s your pastor, Kate?”
I stared at him, blank. I couldn’t remember the man’s name. I had heard him preach every Sunday for four years and I couldn’t remember his name.
“Joe Crockett,” Kris said.
I shook my head in amazement, thinking how smart she was. I had raised this kid—Neil was so proud of her…. Neil.
Then Pastor Crockett and his wife, Eva, arrived. Time had no meaning for me. Pastor Joe took my hand and I saw the compassion in his eyes and I started crying harder. Eva had her arms around Kelli and Kris, leading them from the room. I knew I had to get control of myself. My daughters needed me, but I couldn’t think. People talked to me and I answered or nodded, but it was as if I was watching some other woman sitting on the sofa shredding a tissue and trying to cope.
My pastor’s words came to me out of a fog. “Neil’s in heaven now with his Lord and Savior.”
I knew he meant well, but I wanted to lash out that I didn’t want him to be in heaven. I wanted him here, with me.
Oh, God…why? Had I told him I loved him and kissed him goodbye before he left this morning? I wished I could go back and relive that hurried departure. Hold him