A Test of Faith

I typically loved Fridays, and it seemed as if this one was going to be nothing but another terrific day. The long week of work had gone very well, and life in general was absolutely perfect. Although I thoroughly enjoyed my work as a physical therapist and the time I spent at my career, I was especially fond of Fridays because, like most people, my husband Chuck and I had two days off to spend in a different environment than the office. We loved having the free time to be together with our two children as a family, sharing each other’s company and doing fun activities.

This particular December Friday seemed unusually special because we had a great weekend of events planned, and it looked as if the weather was going to cooperate. The sky was its usual magnificent blue, the temperature was a perfect seventy-five degrees, and the feeling in the air was light and fresh. We lived in Bonita Springs, a small but rapidly growing community nestled between Ft. Myers and Naples on the west coast of Florida. When I walked outside to get the morning newspaper, I paused in the driveway for a moment and looked up into the incredibly clear, cloudless sky. I stood tall, smiled, and filled my lungs to capacity with the pure, clean air. I loved Southwest Florida winters. The sun was not quite as intense as in the summer, and there was rarely any humidity. I drew in another happy breath and picked up the newspaper.

That Friday started like any other morning for our family. We were in great moods and were excited about a new day. Our children, Benjamin and Dana, scampered happily through the house as we went about our normal routine to get ready for work and prepare for Miss Patty, our nanny, to arrive. Ben, who was three years old, decided that he wanted to make French toast for breakfast, which was of no surprise to me. It was one of his favorites, and his usual breakfast request. I think it was a favorite food mostly because his job was to crack open the eggs for me and then to dip the Wonder Bread into the mixture. We fixed it together, and soon the French toast was sprinkled with cinnamon, and the fresh Florida orange juice was poured into the usual three-inch high blue and green plastic cups. Chuck, my husband of eight years, had finished his coffee and oatmeal earlier, so he was busy showering and dressing while the children and I ate our breakfast at the kitchen table.

We talked all about our plans for the day, and I could see that the children were as excited about the weekend as I was.

"Do you and Daddy have to go to work today?" Ben asked.

"Yes, but guess what day tomorrow is?" I answered.

Ben immediately started singing the Barney song: "There are seven days, there are seven days, there are seven days in a week--"

I loved when he sang, which was often. When Ben finished his song, I asked, "So, what day is tomorrow?"

He looked at me and grinned. "Tomorrow is Saturday, Mommy, and that is the day you and Daddy get to stay home from work to play with me and Dana." He was excited as he began telling me about all the things he wanted to do together.

Putt-putt golf, as always, was on Ben’s agenda. Putt-putt was usually ok with Chuck and me because we managed to complete the eighteen holes at the Golf Safari course in about twenty minutes. "Next hole" was how we rushed through the course. Ben hardly had a chance to finish putting his ball into the cup when one of us would holler, "Next hole!" It kept the game moving quickly past the African animals featured on the course.

Dana, only seven months old, was content to watch the game from her stroller for only a brief time, as she preferred to be part of the real action. Dana was a wonderful addition to our family and a perfect daughter. Ben loved being her big brother. If Dana had her way, she would have been crawling all over the miniature golf course, so we had to keep the game moving. Ben, though, had a passion for putt-putt golf from an early age and even at seven months old would never have sat as contently on the sidelines as his sister.

Benjamin loved all sports. You name the sport, and he wanted to be a part of the game. His bedroom closely resembled an athletic store with its posters and banners hung on the walls and ball caps lined neatly on a shelf. Baseball bats, hockey sticks, and a tennis racquet stood upright in a corner. Of all sports, hockey most peaked his interest, and the breakfast table conversation on that Friday morning soon turned to the Florida Everblades hockey team. They were in town all weekend for a tournament.

"Do you think the Everblades will score, Mommy?" asked Ben.

"Oh, I bet they will," I answered.

"I do, too. I think they are the best team in the whole wide world," Ben said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Can we get some pizza before the game?"

"Sure," I said, not really thinking much about dinner. I was helping Dana dip her French toast into her syrup "dipping pond."

We had plans to go to dinner and then to the Friday evening hockey game. Ben had decided to wear his new jersey and had already asked if he could bring along the puck that the usher had given to him two weeks earlier. The puck was stored in our freezer at Ben’s insistence because that was what the "real" hockey players did. On Saturday, after our putt-putt golf outing, we were going to be off to another hockey event at TECO Arena in Ft. Myers. Our weekends were always busy like this because we loved to pack the day with family activities. Just being together was very satisfying for us.

And so we finished breakfast, and soon Chuck and I were off to work. The only addition to our usual Friday routine was Ben’s doctor’s appointment. We didn’t know then that visiting the doctor for a checkup would turn this beautiful, clear, sunny Friday into a giant, dark storm that would change our lives forever.