Laurel and I walked to the car without words, each of us focused on what needed to be done before we left Raleigh.  I was obsessing about Jackson, and how he would react to his Dad’s “weakness.”  Joe was the strong, rational one in the family and we all relied on him, but Jackson needed his Dad to be an oasis of calm in a sea of tumultuous emotions (I’m afraid that was, and is me.  Some people even suggest I can be a touch dramatic!).

Laurel was busy making a mental “to do” list of what her Dad would need in the hospital, and what she should pack for herself in case the two of us decided to stay overnight.  Laurel lives by her “to do” lists and I concede she is mighty organized (her room withstanding).

Anyway, after explaining the situation to Joe’s dad, making arrangements for him to pick Jackson up from school that afternoon, and packing a few items for Joe, we set off to Winston Salem.  At some point before we left, I posted a prayer request on FB.  Wanting to cover all my prayer bases I also sent an email to our Sunday School class.

As I drove, Laurel and I began bickering about the navigation.  Now, six months later, I can’t even remember the specifics, something about finding the fastest route on the GPS, and how she was a terrible navigator.   It was about 11:20; over an hour had passed since the call and we were very anxious, and terribly aware of the passing of time.  A deep urgency was thrumming through my body, screaming at me to hurry.  Nonetheless, I decided to detour onto Ridge Road so we could take a few minutes to safely program the address.

As I slowed down to pull over to the curb, the phone rang.  I will forever believe this was one of many times God has interceded during this whole mess.  Had Laurel and I not been arguing about directions, we would have been barreling down Highway 440 at 65 mph.  I answered the phone and the man on the other side said he was an ER doctor in Winston Salem. He did give his name, but I have no recollection of it and absolutely no interest in obtaining it.  He was simply the Voice which bore the news that changed us forever.

As he asked me if I was seated, my mind was yelling “God, please, please, please, please…” but I quietly, and as expressionlessly as possible answered with a simple “yes.”  Remember, Laurel was in the car, right beside me, hyper-sensitive to the minutia of any emotional displays.  The Voice then clinically proceeded to inform me, that although they had done all they could, Joe didn’t make it.  He gave me all the medical jargon; I cared nothing for it.  What did it matter to me the pathway of Joe’s death?  How could Joe’s heart stop when he had one of the biggest hearts I knew?  The doctor asked me if I understood.  Although I answered with a yes, I did not comprehend.  It didn’t make sense; he had just left the day before for an overnight business trip and was due back later that afternoon.

By God’s continued intercession, Ridge Rd, where I pulled over, is the street where we work.  All I could focus on was getting to the school, to Penny.  I knew she would be able to support me spiritually, and I did not want to tell Laurel her Dad had died as we were sitting in a parked car.  I think somehow, Laurel had an inkling.  She asked me over and over if the call was news about her Dad, but she never pressed for information.  When we arrived at the preschool, I let her know her Dad didn’t make it.  Oh, the torment in her face stabs me even today.  “Daddy?  My Daddy?” she cried, in a little girl’s voice.  And all those tears she had bravely choked back when we first heard Joe had a heart attack came back with a force that overcame her.  As she doubled over with the pain, I put my arms around her and led her to the place where I hoped solace awaited; the preschool.