Choosing to SEE - Mary Beth Chapman [59]
As we followed the ambulance down the driveway, we saw David holding Will in the front yard. Steven lowered his window.
“Will Franklin!” Steven yelled at the top of his voice, though he wouldn’t even remember this later. “Just remember, your father loves you!”
We pulled out of the driveway. We drove past the place where the paramedics were loading Maria into the helicopter. It felt so weird, driving past our daughter . . . but we couldn’t go on the helicopter with her. The best thing we could do was get to the hospital as soon as possible.
Our friend drove as fast as he could from our home in Franklin toward Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville, but it was rush hour and traffic was crawling. In the front seat, Steven beat his fist on the window over and over as hard as he could, praying out loud for God to please, please breathe life into Maria, breathe life into Maria.
I was in the backseat next to my friend Lori, crying, screaming, praying, and calling people on my cell phone. David Trask was driving Caleb and Will to the hospital. Caleb had called Emily; she had just gotten off work. She picked up Tanner, and they were heading to the hospital. They knew nothing other than Maria had been hit by a car.
Finally, finally, in the crawl of rush hour traffic, we arrived at Vanderbilt.
As we came into the emergency room, we were walking in slow motion. I saw someone curled up on the floor of the waiting room, crying. I saw my brother Jim and his wife Yolanda, the Lipscomb family, Reggie and Karen Anderson, Chris and Miriam Chesbro, and several other friends. Everyone was just standing there looking at us . . . a moment frozen in time. Then I saw one of our pastors, our friend Mike Smith, walking toward Steven and me.
At about the same time a hospital staff person came up to us as well. “You need to come this way, with me,” she said.
I started backing up.
“No! No!” I screamed. “No, I don’t want to go that way, please, no!”
I think I knew in my heart that Maria was gone, but I was hoping that the LifeFlight team had been able to either resuscitate her or keep her breathing. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. I kept trying to wake myself up.
They took us to a small room beyond the ER. The doctors who had worked on Maria were there, along with several nurses. They told us that while they had done everything they could, Maria had, in fact, passed away.
“No!” I screamed. I fought the nurses and doctors to get out of that room.
“No!”
They eventually walked us to the trauma room where they had worked on Maria. They had already disconnected most of the equipment that had been used to try to save her life. She was just lying there, like she was asleep. The only mark on her was a small abrasion on the side of her forehead.
“Oh, God!” Steven cried. “Breathe life into Maria! You can bring her back to life! Please bring her back to life!” He knew God could do that if He chose to.
I knew that too. But something inside me also knew that God had healed Maria in a way we didn’t want. I went up behind my husband and gently put my hand on his back.
“We’ve got to let her go, Sweetie,” I whispered. “It’s okay to let her go. It’s time to let her go.”
Somehow in that unthinkable moment it became clear to Steven and me that we were standing at the very door of heaven, placing our little girl carefully in the arms of Jesus, desperately trusting that she would be safe there until we could come and join her.
Somewhere in the distance I heard Steven’s voice explaining to those in the room that this was an eternal moment, and how everything in this life really comes down to this moment for each of us.
“As crazy as this seems right now,” he said, “the only thing I can say to honor the life of my little girl and our terrible loss at this moment is to ask you, please don’t miss this . . . we will all stand here one day and face eternity. If you don’t know the One who can give you eternal life, His name is Jesus . . . you need to meet Him and you really need to meet my little girl in heaven . .