FOUR
SMOKE SIGNALS
Later that evening, with a swim under their belts, Cassie and Colton sat in
a big round booth at the Old Chicago Restaurant in Greeley, Colorado,
coloring happily while Sonja and I chatted with Pastor Steve Wilson and his
wife, Rebecca. We had already chowed down on some terrific Italian food,
including the usual kid favorites—pizza, spaghetti, and garlic bread.
Steve was senior pastor of a church of between fifteen hundred and two
thousand people—nearly as many people as lived in our hometown of
Imperial. It was a chance for Sonja and me to get to know another pastor in
our district and to get some ideas on how other pastors do ministry. We
planned to visit Steve’s church, Greeley Wesleyan, the next day. Sonja
especially wanted to get a look at how the church’s Sunday morning
children’s program worked. Rebecca divided her time between the grown-
up conversation and coloring with the kids.
“Wow, Colton, you’re doing a really good job coloring that pizza!” she
said. Colton offered a thin, polite smile but had fallen unusually quiet. Then,
a few minutes later, he said, “Mommy, my tummy hurts.”
Sonja and I exchanged a glance. Was it the stomach flu coming back?
Sonja laid the back of her hand against Colton’s cheek and shook her
head. “You don’t feel hot, hon.”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Colton said.
“I don’t feel so good, either, Mommy,” Cassie said.
We figured it was something they ate. With both kids feeling under the
weather, we ended our dinner early, said good-bye to the Wilsons, and
headed back to the hotel, which was just across the parking lot from the
restaurant. As soon as we got the door to our room open, Colton’s
prediction came true: he upchucked, beginning on the carpet and ending,
as Sonja whisked him into the tiny bathroom, in the toilet.
Standing in the bathroom doorway, I watched Colton’s small form bent
over and convulsing. This didn’t seem like any kind of food poisoning.