Tyler's
Firetrucks
Blessed
are the pure in heart:
for they
shall see God.
-- Matthew 5:8
Our good friends were living in
Sheridan, Wyo., with their three small sons, when one day, adorable Tyler, 2½,
starting walking at a slant and falling over, like a drunken sailor.
"Tyler! What are you doing, Buddy?"
his mother laughed, thinking he was being silly. "Why do you keep losing your
balance?"
"I can't stand up, Mom," was his
reply.
Her smile vanished. He wasn't
kidding. She took him to the doctor. At first they thought he'd been poisoned, but
the tox screens were clear.
Then the nightmare began in earnest:
the CAT scan showed there was a mass on Tyler's brainstem.
A mass!
A tumor!
Oh, my God!
But that's all they knew without
more extensive medical testing.
It was 3 p.m. on the day before the
Christmas weekend, and most of the clinic staff had already left. The nearest
facility with an MRI machine and spinal tap capability was in a hospital in Billings,
Mont. It was two hours away . . . and they closed in two hours.
It was a total blur: she sped home
and packed up bottles for Tyler's baby brother, just three weeks old. She
slogged his baby clothes from the washing machine into a plastic sack because
there was no time to dry them. She tried to keep the baby happy, and Tyler and
his older brother somewhat calm. Her husband picked them up with screeching
tires, and they literally set sail for Billings. At the time, Montana didn't
have a speed limit. You can imagine.
All the way . . . every moment of
that drive . . . they prayed. They got on their cell phones and called all their
loved ones, everyone they knew, and got them to pray, too. It may be the only
time in recorded history in which "prayers per minute" exceeded "miles per
hour."
They got there in time. Tyler went
through all the tests, and spent the night in the hospital, where everybody
fell in love with him. What's not to love about a 2-year-old boy who was crazy
about firetrucks, and chattered about his firetruck toys, and the firetrucks
he'd crawled all over during his visit to the fire station, and how his
grown-up cousin had let him try on his firefighter gear, and it was really,
really cool.
Finally, Tyler dozed off, innocent
and rosy-cheeked. They slept the fitful sleep of parents out of their minds
with worry.
Next morning, the neurologist came
in with the test results. He had a funny look on his face.
"Whatever was there, is gone," he
told the parents. "To be honest, I don't know what happened. Maybe he had a
virus. . . ."
Joy erupted all over everybody's
faces. They had no doubt it was the power of prayer.
They hugged their boys, and kissed
them, and gathered up their stuff and started for home. They got the seats wet
in the car with their tears. A couple of days later, they had the happiest
Christmas ever, and then some.
Now fast-forward a few months. They
were having supper. The older brother had some spiritual questions, as children
do. He asked what heaven looks like, and whether his mom or dad had ever seen
God, or talked to Him.
Before they could answer, little
Tyler piped up from his high chair:
"I've seen God! I talked to Him,
too!"
His parents exchanged glances, and
smiled.
"Remember when I lost my balance and
the doctors put me in that long machine?"
Hunh? They listened intently.
"I talked to Him then. He was really
nice, Mom. He told me it was going to be OK . . .
". . . and I should go on and ride
some more firetrucks."
Firetrucks?
Ride some more. . . .
They were so flabbergasted, they
forgot to ask what God looked like. But that's OK: they'll see Him soon enough.
And something tells me He'll have
Tyler next to Him, and they'll be riding in the biggest, shiniest firetruck you
ever saw. I mean . . . it'll be really, really cool. †
