Pull into the parking garage. It’s packed. No parking spaces. Behind your vehicle is a line of vehicles, headlights blaring.

In your mirror, you can see motorists behind you, all shaking heads, because you are all playing the infamous parking-lot game, Follow the Leader. And apparently you’re the leader.

When you finally find a parking spot, you’re already late. You jump out of the vehicle and watch the angry motorists speed past you.

You half-jog to the elevators. You’re running VERY late.

In the elevator is a little boy and his mother. They are both carrying overnight bags. Mom looks like she hasn’t slept in eight years. The boy looks worried. He’s so serious.

“Mom?” the boy asks. “Do you think Caleb’s surgery worked?”

Mom flashes an uncomfortable look and tells the boy to hush because they are in an elevator with strangers and it’s not polite to blab your business to strangers.

The boy falls quiet. But there is genuine angst in his mannerisms. And you’re wondering who Caleb is.

You all get off at the second floor and disappear into the hospital. You are now walking through a huge glass crosswalk, with downtown Birmingham traffic far below you.

You keep pace alongside a gaggle of young, college-age women in pink scrubs. They are laughing and carrying UAB backpacks.

Behind them are two men, doctors maybe, also in scrubs, stethoscopes dangling from their necks, with briefcases, carrying on an in-depth discussion about football.

When you arrive in the lobby, you can tell this hospital was specifically designed for kids. The bright colors. The wacky, vivid artwork everywhere.

In the lobby of this great building are people from all walks, standing around, all waiting for Heaven knows what. Mostly families. There are families of every shape, color, and creed.

You see a family of five, all wearing jeans, belt buckles, and boots. Even the two little girls wear this particular uniform. You can tell this family either lives on a farm, or they own stock in the Wrangler jeans company. They hold balloons and a handmade poster that reads, “We Love You, Adam!” One of the girls is crying.

Another family. A mom and a dad, with a young man using a wheelchair. Mom is guiding his wheelchair through the lobby, and the young man is wrapped in various bandages. He carries several bouquets in his lap. He looks like a living floral exhibit. They all look so happy. They look like they are going home.

An elderly couple is holding hands with a bald child between them. At a distance, you can’t tell if the child is boy or girl, because of the missing hair. But you CAN tell that the elderly couple is racked with worry.

You see worry in their body language. In their oft repeated hugs. In their continued usage of encouraging words to the child. Words like, “We’re not going to worry until the doctor tells us to worry, sweetie.”

You suddenly realize you are lost. You glance at your phone for the room number. Dang it. You’re supposed to be on the ninth floor, and you’re about half an hour late.

So, you ask a police officer for directions.

Birmingham police officers in this place sometimes dress up like Batman or Superman for the kids. They go around to visit the sickest patients and brighten their days.

“You gotta check in first,” the officer explains, pointing you to the front desk.

The woman behind the desk is named Diedra. She is pure, uncut cheerfulness contained in human form.

There’s no telling how many people she checks in, day after day. People who shoulder the worries of the entire world. People who stare sorrow in the eyes. Who face the horrors of child mortality, adolescent disease, and the death of innocents. But somehow, Diedra makes you feel welcome here. Like she’s actually glad to see you.

You give her your driver license so she can check you in. Then you pose for a photograph that will go on your visitor’s badge. Your photo is unflattering. You look like a giant hotdog with hair.

As Diedra is filling out your paperwork, you are watching a young married couple with a child, to your left.

They child is a small girl. The girl has a skinny tube coming out of her nose. A feeding tube, maybe? There are small bandages on her tiny legs and arms. She looks so frail. Like a bird. There is a massive scar on her neck.

Also, the girl seems weak. She can barely walk. She almost stumbles and falls flat on the journey across the lobby. But, bless her, she is not giving up.

She walks with determination, and uneven strides, and tells her parents she wants to walk on her own, and leave me alone, I can do it by myself, Mom.

Even so, she stumbles again. And again. And then she stumbles so severely the little girl nearly face plants.

But the father is there. In one swift motion, her father scoops her into his arms. He holds the child against his breast. He kisses her curly hair. He kisses her scar. He squeezes her and says, “Daddy’s got you, honey.”

And you feel, somehow, that you have just witnessed a great metaphor here inside Children’s of Alabama.