Finding God at The Inspection Station

           

         “Drive your car up there,” said the female attendant as she pointed to space in front of me.  She was wearing an orange and silver reflective vest. I was at the inspection station in Paramus, NJ getting my car inspected.  It was two months overdue.  “When you get up there, turn off the engine and move over to the passenger seat."

            What? Was this because my car was overdue? I’d never stayed in the car before.  But I did as instructed, turning off the engine and leaving my keys in the ignition, climbing over the center tray counsel into the passenger seat.  I glanced out the window to see a queue of men and women, many dressed in skirts and trousers, waiting on the concrete walkway for their cars to be inspected.  I then twisted in my seat to see a line of empty cars.  Huh? 

            Would I get in trouble for waiting here even though she told me to?  No one else was in their cars.  Still, I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes for just a moment, not wanting to be caught off guard when the male attendant got in my car.  Hearing footsteps, my eyes popped open, but there was no one there. I tucked my shoulder-length hair behind my ear, the simple action of lifting my arm exhausting me. I'd just come from a local hospital where I taught superhero yoga to kids on chemo.  I started about six weeks ago.  When I first told my friends about it, they thought I was crazy as it was only recently that I could even bear to be near a child fighting cancer without having a panic attack.  The pain of losing my oldest son, Christopher, to leukemia was just too much. I still wasn't able to enter either of the two hospitals where he was treated. But seven months ago when I saw the opportunity to teach yoga to kids on chemo through Kula for Karma, I felt compelled to say yes as if God was telling me I needed to do this to continue to heal. 

            Yet earlier as I walked through the revolving hospital doors, holding my sparkly hula hoops, I considered quitting.  It was more than just the fact that I hated hospitals, having lived with Christopher in one for almost five weeks. Today so many of the kids were struggling, their bodies lethargic and their faces tight with pain, reminding me of Christopher's tougher days. Perhaps my friends were right—maybe it was too much. 

            The driver side door opened and I jolted upright.  A male attendant wearing the same orange and silver vest as his colleague poked his head into my van and flinched upon seeing me inside.   

            “She told me to stay here.” I twisted my body and pointed to the attendant with the dark wavy hair at the back of the garage.  

            As he climbed into the driver's seat he said, “Well, you must have done something really good today.”  

            I bit my bottom lip. How could he possibly know?  

           He shifted the car into neutral and then dropped his eyes to the dashboard before looking up and saying again, “You must have done something really good today.”

         I tightened my lips, the back of my neck beginning to perspire. Should I tell him? And then the words spilled out of my mouth.  "I just came from teaching yoga to kids on chemotherapy at a local hospital.”

            His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “I don’t know how you do it.  I've dealt with animals, but never kids. I guess I have to pass you now.” 

            He looked back down at the dashboard, recorded some numbers on his pad and then looked up at me. In a low voice, he asked, “Have you ever seen a child die?”

            My palms got moist.  How could he ask me that?  Still, I nodded and said, “Yes, my son. He died a few years ago from leukemia.” What possessed me to tell him? I never told strangers. 

            He stopped the car in the middle of the track, looked over at me, his voice hoarse. “How can you do it?” 

            I took a deep breath and said, “I like to try to make the kids happy or at least help them to have some fun while they're there. And I try to help them not be so scared.”  Energy buzzed within my chest and I felt separate from body.  

            He shook his head and asked, “What does your husband say?”

            “He wonders how I do it." I paused catching my breath. "I do it because I know what the families are going through.”

            He stared at me but said nothing. His eyes were bright and glistening.  

            After he passed my minivan, he stepped out and I climbed back over my center counsel into the driver's seat. Through my opened window, I thanked him.  He looked back at me and said, “No, thank you.” 

         As I drove away, I reflected on what had just happened.  Why did the female attendant have me stay in the car? And why did he say, 'You must have done something good today,' not once, but twice?  Maybe he was just making conversation. But those questions he asked. It felt like the two attendants were part of a puzzle to show me that I needed to keep teaching the children at the hospital for them... and for me.  It was a gift from God that I had found this opportunity. And now it felt like God was guiding me again through these two strangers.  And it was all within the short span of getting my car inspected.