Two Girls and a Four-Square Ball

Wallace Alcorn

“Daddy! Wait a minute!”

“Honey, I don’t have time. The hospital just called, and I have to be with a little girl who’s dying.”

I didn’t look at Allison, then 12, but I caught a glimpse of the defective red ball she was holding out. I knew what she wanted. I had promised to exchange it at the Fort Lewis PX.

I’d also promised her—probably several times—that I would play Four Square when I “had some time.” But not much of that was left for my daughter these days. Suddenly, there came to mind my jostling her in my arms as I carried her to bed when she was but three. “Daddy, you sure know how to make little girls happy,” she had said. My thought back then: Not little girls but my little girl.

I turned, and this time I saw my daughter. “OK, Honey. Toss the ball. I’ll take it back—if I have time.”

“Thank you, Daddy!” she exclaimed with joy (putting more stock in my words than there was). I casually flipped the ball over my shoulder into the back seat of the car. (Well, at least I’d gotten it that far.)

As I drove to Madigan Army Medical Center, I concentrated on Lisa, an 11-year-old black girl dying of sickle cell anemia. At first, I’d felt awkward, being white, as I ministered to this family. But her parents, an Air Force sergeant and his wife, dutifully accepted me as their chaplain. Lisa, especially in her last days, had grown emotionally dependent upon me. And I had become emotionally implicated with her beyond the limits of professionalism. I just had to be with her when she died. (I felt good about meaning so much to this little girl—almost important.)

As I entered pediatric ICU, the nurse’s eyes signaled nothing more could be done. This is it.

I nodded toward Lisa’s parents and grandmother as they stood on one side of the bed. Her two militant brothers stood near the door, their faces stone-like.

I turned toward Lisa. A stranger would have said she was expressionless, but I sensed remains of the familiar weak but soft smile. She faintly squeezed my hand.

I moved close to her ear and softly sang the gospel songs she and I had agreed were our favorites. Then I came to one especially poignant: Precious Lord, take my hand / Lead me on, help me stand / I am tired, I am weak, I am worn / Thru the storm, thru the night / Lead me on to the light / Take my hand, precious Lord / Lead me home.

When we finished singing, for a moment I thought Lisa was thinking on this…silently, motionlessly. Then the monitor mechanically announced the end of a life.

I stayed with the family for more than an hour and suffered agonizing discomfort. Her ancient grandmother had an uncomplicated, uncritical faith: “Praise the Lord—she’s with Jesus now!” I resented that she so easily accepted what I could not.

Meanwhile, her brothers’ anger erupted, and they acted out: Why did an innocent black girl have to die in a honkey hospital of something that, somehow, had to be Whitey’s fault? I could neither explain nor defend. I didn’t understand.

For several minutes in the contest between naive faith and irrational rebellion, I had overlooked Lisa’s father and mother. But I had so little to say. I couldn’t tell them I understood because there was no way I could understand what it’s like to lose an 11-year-old child. Surely, I said something. But I doubt if they heard. Supposing there was nothing left for me to do, I left.

Back in my car, I dropped my head on the steering wheel and cried for a very long time. I felt guilty. Because I am white and she was black? This isn’t logical. I had lost more than Lisa: I had lost something inside me that I needed to recover.

Then something I had been taking lightly weighed heavily upon me. A few minutes later, I soberly held out a deflated red ball to the PX clerk. Without comment she handed me its replacement, and I left also without speaking. There was nothing to say.

I played Four-Square that day. All afternoon. With just one notso-little-anymore girl. A special girl whose specialness grew with every bounce of that red ball. And I became daddy again.