The Wimbledon of Upchuck

Monday I ended with "spiritual warfare conducted from a minivan." Unfortunately, that line came with painful inspiration. Fair warning , weak stomachs should proceed with caution. 

A week ago, my family piled into the van at what my wife lovingly calls "the butt crack of dawn." We had a funeral to attend in Georgia for someone special to us  and the drive required a 4:30 a.m. departure just to get there with time to visit family and a little wiggle room for emergencies.

Here's what you need to know about my kids, they suffer from AM car sickness. Early morning plus moving vehicle equals somebody losing their breakfast. We know this. We've accepted it. And so, like seasoned veterans, we prepared accordingly.

Two sick buckets. Pajamas for the drive, dress clothes packed separately. A light snack of blueberries and juice. We loaded the van. We pulled out the drive feeling, genuinely, like we had this.

We did not have this.

Not even two minutes down the road, Thing One threw up. Twenty-five minutes later, again. Fifteen minutes after that, again. Then forty-five minutes after that, again.

Four rounds, one kid. As terrible as that sounds, there was a strange comfort in it. It seemed contained. The other three were holding steady. Maybe just maybe we were going to be okay.

Not so fast.

Right on cue after Thing One's fourth round, Thing Four decided it was her turn. She's two years old, which means there was no warning. No bucket request. No "Daddy, I don't feel good." Just immediate, vomit of biblical proportions directly onto the back of my seat. And once she started, she couldn't stop.

For the next three hours, Thing One and Thing Four went back and forth like The Wimbledon of upchuck. Back and forth. Back and forth. The rest of us just tried to survive.

Then, with twenty minutes left in the drive ……twenty minutes.. Thing Two entered the match. And he did not make it to a bucket. Instead, he turned and unloaded directly onto the separately packed dress clothes.

The white dresses.

Covered in blueberries.

My wife panicked. And because I was driving down the interstate, she did the only logical thing: unbuckled her seatbelt and dove into the back seat like a Secret Service agent going after the President. She was triaging the damage, trying to salvage what she could, when Thing Four sensing her moment  turned and threw up directly onto my wife's dress.

Four of the six of us. Twenty minutes from the church. Already dreading this funeral.

We made an emergency Walmart run to replace every outfit we owned. That being said, we still made it. Two minutes late, but we made it. After that whole debacle one thing kept coming to mind.

For the past few weeks, we have been studying Job in my teen class.

And let me be clear: I am not comparing a vomit filled road trip to the suffering of Job. Job lost his children, his wealth, his health, and sat in ashes while his friends took turns explaining his suffering in ways that somehow made everything worse.

But studying Job does something to you.

It reminds you that life doesn't ask permission before it falls apart. Job knew that better than anyone. One day everything was fine. Then it wasn't. No warning. Just immediate destruction the scriptures say that one hadn't even finished talking before the next servant brought him more bad news. 

"The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." — Job 1:21

That was Job's response. A man holding on to God when holding on was all he had left.

Sometimes you can do everything right. You can plan ahead. You can pack the buckets. You can leave early. You can build in extra time. You can have the dress clothes safely tucked away.

And still, twenty minutes from your destination, you find yourself standing in Walmart buying replacement dress clothes.

That is just life.

Not always tragic. Sometimes absurd. Sometimes painful. Sometimes so ridiculous that all you can do is laugh, because the alternative is sitting in the parking lot questioning every decision that led to our particular outcome. 

Job teaches us that faith is not proven by having a smooth life. Faith is proven when life is anything but smooth.

It is easy to talk about patience when everyone is healthy, the van smells fine, and nobody has violated the nice clothes that you INTENTIONALLY packed separately.

It is harder when you are exhausted, grieving, running late, cleaning vomit, and trying not to lose your mind before 8 in the morning.
But that is where real faith needs to show up.

Job said it this way: "Though he slay me, I will hope in him." — Job 13:15
Not "I will hope in him when things get better." Not "I will hope in him once I understand what is happening." Just: I will hope in him. Period. Full stop. Even now.

It needs to show up in a minivan. In a Walmart aisle. When your wife is covered in toddler vomit and still making sure everybody else has what they need.

And sometimes faith is just saying, "Lord, help me not be the next one to vomit right now."

Job did not understand everything that was happening to him. He never got the explanation he wanted. What he got instead was God showing up and asking,

"Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?" — Job 38:4

Which is not the answer Job was looking for. But it was the reminder he needed. God is not confused by your chaos. He was there before it started, and He will be there when it's over.

That is the part I keep coming back to.

We are not promised easy mornings. We are not promised that grief will wait until life is convenient. But we are promised that God is still God in the middle of it. As Job finally said after everything "I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted." — Job 42:2

And sometimes, after the chaos settles, you realize the people in that van are part of the blessing too. And I would not trade them for anything.

Love you Dearly
Jacob