God Drives a Tow Truck (10 page)

I was determined to push the dresser to the opposite wall. To get the proper leverage, first I had to inch the dresser forward from the wall. I rocked it and shoved, then rocked it to the other side and pulled. Just another few inches of rocking and tugging, and I was able to move it enough for me to squish behind it. I shoved it as hard as I dared, my pregnant belly a tight fit in the narrow space. It did not budge a millimeter. I would need to brace myself somehow to push against it using my legs. An idea began to form, a stroke of genius. I rubbed my hands together with delight. I braced my back against the wall, and then began inching my feet up off the floor, against the back of the dresser. This was even harder than it sounds, with my belly the size of a Mack truck. However, I finally positioned myself such that my legs were close to the middle top of the dresser, and I should be able to straighten them slowly, and push the dresser a good two or three feet. With a heave, I began to slowly extend my knees.

There was a resounding crack, and I felt the wall behind me give way. My buttocks punched a hole in the sheet rock. I sat there, momentarily wedged in the wall, as a growing horror overcame me. Not only was I perhaps permanently stuck in the wall, but should I manage to disengage myself, there was going to be a hole ominously shaped like my bottom. I hung on the wall and glanced at my watch. I had, if I was lucky, two hours to come up with a solution before Arvo returned from work.

With monumental effort, I pried myself from the Buttocks hole. I shook the sheetrock dust from my clothes. Little pieces of plaster crumbled to the floor.

“Oh dear,” I mumbled. I didn’t care what the Pregnancy Manual said; I needed to move that dresser pronto. I shoved it back in front of the hole. The dresser was not quite high enough to conceal all the damage. The upper edges of the ruined wall gaped at me, a horrible impossible wound in my fairy tale room.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” I muttered, grabbing the car keys. I ricocheted out the door, and hurried to the local Goodwill Store. Fortunately, my luck had not completely given out, and I found a large mirror. I raced home with it. I knew it would have been best to find studs in the wall to anchor the hanging nail, but I also knew that any minute my husband would be home. I hurriedly nailed the mirror to the wall over the hole. I made sure the bottom edge of it dipped a little below the top of the dresser. Then, inch by inch, I rocked the dresser back against the wall. I raced for the vacuum, and quickly sucked up the final dust of evidence. As I wiped the sweat from my face and put away the vacuum, Arvo came home. He found me in the baby room, surveying my work with a slightly worried look on my face.

“Hi honey,” he said, “What are you doing?”

“Oh not much,” I answered, “Just a little rearranging.”

He looked at the mirror.

“Is that new?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Sure,” he answered, “Are you sure you should have hung it so low?”

“This is the safest place for it,” I said quickly, “The baby can’t grab the bottom of it and break it. Wouldn’t want seven years of bad luck…”

We both looked at the mirror and dresser.

“How was your day?” I said, “Bet you’re starved. I’ll go see what I can do about dinner.” I hurried away.

I am somewhat ashamed to admit that it was not until many years later that I finally confessed to my crime. When we were packing our possessions for our impending move to North Carolina, Arvo removed the mirror from the wall.

“Vicky?” he called. I came in, my hands filled with kitchen glasses I was wrapping in newspaper.

“What is that?” asked Arvo, pointing at the Buttocks Hole.

I am sure I blushed, and then I laughed. I had forgotten all about the hole in the wall. I told him the story and he laughed too. He repaired the wall, shaking his head.

Upon hearing the story, my cousin, Carol, noted how like sin my hole in the wall was. We can try to conceal it, to hide it, to disguise it, but eventually, it will be exposed. Sin, like my hole, is conspicuously shaped like the worst part of us. It never goes away on its own, no matter how well we hide it. It will lurk there until we have the courage to confront it, and fix it once and for all- no ifs, ands, or butts.

Chapter Fourteen

Specificity and Prayer

Psalm 77: 1-3

¹
I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me.
²
When I was in distress, I sought the Lord;  at night I stretched out untiring hands, and I would not be comforted.  
³
I remembered you, God, and I groaned; I meditated, and my spirit grew faint.

Some people come to faith through persuasive pastors, ardent fellow believers, miracles, or riveting speeches. I came to faith partially through the picture of a swirl of hair behind the ear of a seven month old baby in utero. When my first son was percolating inside me, I spent many hours poring over pictures of what babies looked like at the various stages of development. They all humbled and amazed me, but one reduced me to tears every time I looked at it. I still am unsure why, but a photograph of a baby in the womb with a close-up of the pattern of hair behind his ears always evoked a swell of wonder and brimming tears. I was not yet a believer, though seeking evidence of God, and the first proof to me that there had to be a God was that swirl of hair. The attention to detail of this most magnificent of creation was the argument that finally put me over the top.

Five months after Anders was born, I professed my faith. That day is seared in my memory. Before I spoke the words, I felt talons gripping my heart and the pain was overwhelming. I was sure I was having a heart attack, though I was only 29 years old and in excellent health. As I spoke a prayer of faith out loud, I felt the talons ripping inside of me, losing their grip, and then the pain was gone, and I was a Believer. I know this sounds crazy. It
is
crazy, but it is true.

My maternity leave was nearly over, and I realized with agonizing despair that I could not leave this miracle of creation to be raised by anyone but me. I did not want to return to work. I did not want to leave my baby, but I didn’t know how we would survive financially without my income. My husband and I scrutinized our budget, cutting everything we could think of, but there was no way to pay the mortgage and have anything left for groceries, unless I worked.

“Bottom line,” I said to Arvo, “What do I need to earn for us to survive?”

If I could manage to earn a minimum of $300 a week, we would make it.

“Then I am going to pray for a job ten hours a week at $30 an hour,” I proclaimed.

Now that was 25 years ago, and Occupational Therapists were relatively well paid, but I had never heard of a job with
that
kind of pay, particularly in rural upstate NY. I had a week before I had to return to my full time job or lose it. So, I prayed. I prayed for exactly ten hours of work a week at $30 an hour.

That day, I was looking through the employment section, and noticed an advertisement for Occupational Therapists to the local school districts through a Cooperative Agency. My heart was thumping wildly. I knew this was important. Before I called, I held my beloved new son to me and told him what I hoped God would do for us. Then I dialed.

An interview was set up for that very afternoon. I left Anders with Grandma, then drove with mounting excitement to the office where the agency was located. I prayed during the entire drive for a job offer of ten hours a week at $30 an hour. When I arrived at the agency, I bowed my head and closed my eyes. No more words came. Just hope. I heaved a deep sigh, and stepped out of the car.

The interviewer shook my hand and asked me to have a seat.

“I understand you just called today. Did you bring a copy of your resume?”

I handed him the folder with my resume and told him, “Thank you for seeing me so quickly. I am very eager to find part time work. I just had a baby and would prefer not to continue with my full time job.”

“Congratulations! How old is your baby?”
“Six months. He is even more wonderful than I had thought he would be.”

The kind man smiled and nodded, examining the resume. Then he sat back and looked at me a moment, chin resting on his interlaced fingers.

“I am very impressed with your qualifications,” he said, “But we really need a full time therapist. You are certain you would only consider part time work?”

My heart sank. I was a new believer, and thought that whatever one asked of God in faith would be granted. This was not a selfish prayer. I was not praying for $300 a week so that I could go sip Chardonnay on the Riviera. I wanted to raise my child myself, be there when he skinned his knee, or learned the definition of gigabyte at age one. (He turned out to be a very smart little boy.)

The interviewer looked at me, waiting while I blinked back tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “But the advertisement
did
specify full time work.”

It did? How had I missed that?

I clutched my purse against me and wondered why God had chosen to slam that door in my heartbroken face. It was one of the first specific prayers I had ever prayed. How could He ignore this one?

“I had hoped to stay home with my baby at least part time.”

I glanced at the photographs on the man’s desk. The first was of a little boy dressed in blue striped overalls. Next to it was a photograph of a pretty woman holding a little girl. A rock painted with bright acrylics sat on the edge of his desk holding down a pile of notes. The interviewer gently asked, “What exactly were you looking for?”

“Ten hours a week at $30,” I said.

He leaned back, amused.

“I guess you have it all figured out.”

I smiled at him, “Yes, I thought I had.”

“Wait here, please.” He stood, and with my resume in his hand, left the office.

I fought the desire to dissolve into a heap of pitiful sobbing. I pictured my baby, that swirl of hair so perfectly twirling behind his ear. I rummaged in my purse for a Kleenex.

The interviewer returned, “What would you say to contract work, no benefits, at Baldwinsville school district?”

Our family had benefits through Arvo’s work. We didn’t need benefits.

“How many hours?” I asked.

“Ten,” he replied, a grin slowly spreading.

“What is the pay?” I asked, not knowing then, or not caring, that asking for pay before any other detail is often a deal breaker.

He beamed at me, “Thirty dollars an hour.”

Does God work in this way very often? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I know that frequently in my early Christian walk, He did. He must have known I needed it. Only a few weeks prior to this moment, while wrestling with the idea of salvation through the atoning death and resurrection of Jesus, before I could
quite
take that leap of faith, I had said, “But my faith is so small and my doubt is so great!”

My dear cousin Jerry, who was urging me to ask God into my life, assured me at the time that was ok. God could deal with just a small seed of faith.

I raced home and flung myself into Grandma’s house, throwing my arms around my little baby. Jerry had been right.

Chapter Fifteen

He Leadeth Me