Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Jennifer Oliver

February 5, 2008

Blessings, Like Rain

Jennifer Oliver

Have you ever given to others, only to receive in return ten-fold the blessings?

One late evening several weeks ago, I powered down my computer at work, walked down the long hallway, and waited at the second-floor window that overlooked the darkened parking lot.  Any moment, I was expecting my husband, Stephen, to pull into the parking lot.  Since we only have one working car, this had been our arrangement for the past several months, for Stephen to drive me to and from work.  Our tight budget wouldn't allow for luxuries, like fixing our other car.

A whirlwind of sirens froze me to the spot.  Normally, my hearing loss prevents me from hearing high-pitched sounds like sirens, but in the distance wave after wave of sirens undulated high and low with urgency, washing over me as the edge of fear began to sink in.

Dear God, I prayed.  Please don't let it be Stephen.  Surely, it can't be Stephen.

Earlier that evening, my husband had called to say he was airing up a flat tire on our old four-door Chrysler Concorde.  Had the tire blown, forcing him to veer off the road into a ditch?

A paralyzing thought popped into my head.  What was the last thing I said to him?

In fact, I had hung up on him.  He was bugging me, saying over and over again in a yokel-like accent, "I'm a'comin' fer you.  Yeppers, I'm a'comin' fer you.  Oh, yessirree-bob, I'm a'comin' fer youuuuuuu-"

Click.  I had hung up on him, chuckling over my husband's goofiness.

The phone rang again.  I picked up to hear him crooning again.  "...I'm a'comin' to git youuuuu-"

Click.

I shook my head.  No, I was sure of it.  Those sirens weren't on the way to rescue my husband on this Army installation.  Any minute now...any minute now I was going to see twin headlights beaming their way into the parking lot.

The wailing of the sirens had ebbed, along with my small panic attack.  I waited.  He had no cell phone to reassure me of his progress on the road.  Another luxury we couldn't afford.

And so I waited.

After thirty minutes had passed without any sign of him, I trudged back to my office, called home, and left a voicemail.  He usually left our four kids at home with the older boys watching the younger two.  Sometimes one or two of them tagged along with their father, to "help pick up Mom from work."

The phone rang.  "Yes, and where are you?" I asked tiredly.  "I thought you were a'comin' to git me."

"Mrs. Oliver?  This is the fire department."

I could barely breathe, not wanting to acknowledge this call.  "Yes?"

"Your husband's been in an accident."

Before I could answer, he continued, "But don't worry, your husband's fine.  We're outside in front of your building, and we've come to take you to him."

"Was there anyone else with him?" I asked, my voice rising in panic.

"No, ma'am.  Were you expecting someone else?"

"No, thank God."  I grabbed my purse and flew out of there.

Two uniformed men ushered me into their department-issued vehicle.

"Ma'am, your husband hit a cow."

Yes.  Stephen had plowed into a cow.

It was pitch dark outside.  In one section of the road, now brightly lit with whirling lights from several police cars and an ambulance, there were no street lights.  No traffic signs to warn of cows on the loose.  One member of the rescue team said, "The fences are being mended.  I guess that's how the cow got out."

I gingerly sidestepped glass bits strewn all over the road like glittering diamonds.  My husband was staring, dazed, at the hulking mess that was once our only mode of transportation.  We wrapped our arms around each other.

He had been going the speed limit, forty miles per hour, when he slammed into an invisible wall.  At first, he thought it was an Army tank, but no, he had broadsided a black cow.  The cow rolled up onto the front hood, smashed into the front window without breaking it, rolled over the roof, and landed on the back window, shattering it.  It rolled off the trunk, fell to the ground, and then proceeded to trot away into the darkness as if nothing had happened.

While members of the rescue team searched for the cow, the EMTs were trying to convince my husband to go to the hospital.  He refused.  The EMTs couldn't believe that Stephen had walked away from this accident.  Thank God for airbags.

The military police called it an "Act of God" as a way of explaining the cow's presence on the road.  An accident, pure and simple.

My husband had quit his job as a flooring manager at a hardware store to become a stay-at-home dad ever since we brought our oldest son home from the NICU nearly thirteen years ago.  He figured why work at a job that would only finance day care when he could give our kids the love only a father could give?

This meant becoming a one-income household without the frills of a cell phone, computer, cable television, video games, and family vacations.

"All that matters is that you're okay, sweetie," I said, hugging him.  Tears welled up in his eyes.

The rescue team had found the cow, and miraculously, it was unscathed.

The week that followed stretched our faith to the limit.  Our insurance, we'd come to find out, didn't cover the cost of a rental car.  Nor did the company feel it was worth their time to investigate a minor accident such as this.

"It would've been better if you had let them take you to the hospital," they said.  It would've been better if you had been maimed, or worse, killed.

We had to find a car quickly.  A friend hauled Stephen around to shop for a car.  We managed to qualify for a small sky-high-interest loan, borrowed money from friends, and plunked down my entire paycheck to buy a used '98 Taurus for $2,000.  Friends stocked our pantry with a week's worth of food.  In the middle of all this, two of my kids fell sick from the stomach virus.  Overdue bills piled up in our mailbox.  Then the rest of the family, one by one, got sick from the stomach virus.  And to top it all off, our water was cut off.  Do you know what it's like to have your water shut off when the whole family is bed-ridden with this nasty virus?

For the past couple of weeks, the annual Food Drive swung into gear to help fill the local food pantries for the less fortunate.  We didn't have much in our cupboard, but I encouraged the kids to bring canned vegetables to their schools, to contribute our share to this noteworthy effort.

Yesterday I came home from work.  My son, Ethan, was at the grocery store in his Boy Scout uniform, helping his troop collect food for the Food Drive.  My other son, Cody, was in band practice to prepare for the All-Region concert.  My husband was lucky to find a pair of dress shoes and slacks at the Salvation Army for Cody's concert attire.

I sat down in the recliner, going through bills.

"Mom, guess what!" Matthew shouted.  My nine-year-old hopped around the living room.  "We won a turkey!"

Earlier, a tall well-dressed man had rung our doorbell and handed a huge box to my husband.  He said he was from the Masonic Lodge, delivering a prize we had won in a raffle.

Sure enough there was a fat turkey in our freezer, along with a package of brown-n-serve rolls.  In the pantry, I found canned vegetables, cranberry sauce, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and stuffing.

And here's the kicker:  we had never entered a raffle contest of any kind.

I knew then in my heart that someone—an earthbound angel—had reported us as one of those less fortunate, a family in need.

I broke down and wept.

"Mom?" seven-year-old Madison asked, rubbing my back.  "Are you crying because you're happy about the turkey?"

I could only nod.

The blessings, they fall like rain, don't they.