Sunday, August 19, 2007

Dearest God,

She finally put her hand in the tiny isolette and took hold of his small hand. His perfectly formed little fingers grabbed hold and held on. He knows his mother. I captured the scene on film.

I see the longing in my daughter's eyes, wanting desperately to hold her sick three day old son. She sits beside him in her wheelchair in the NICU, gazing upon her baby boy, uttering prayers and her love for him.

I watch as parents and grandparents come and go to visit their very sick babies. Visiting just a few moments, they stand aside so nurses, doctors and technicians can do their work. Heartwrenching.

Our grandson was not planned, but he was loved from the beginning. My daughter is a wonderful mother. She carried him the best she could with a body not made well to carry babies. She determined to carry him from the beginning although her doctor had told her not to become pregnant again. She took the risk.

Love forms even when we're sleeping I think. That intangible emotion that bonds one with another is a miraculous act. Why would we want to bond with others when hurt is bound to come with it at one time or another? We do so because we're made to love.

I see the baby in the isolette. I know he is my grandson. But I do not yet have the bond that my daughter has. He's so much a part of her. She naturally gravitates to him. Her love for him draws her to the busy nursery. Her love follows her back to her room until the next time.

I watch like a distant observer. I know when she is thinking about him, praying for him, loving him. I see her pained look when she wonders if he will make it. I witness her guilt when she feels she failed him, giving birth early. But what could she do? Her body said it was time and so did he.

I tell her that she gave him life early so the doctors could do for him what her body could not do. She's not convinced. I believe it though.

I stand watching, waiting for the anguish to pass, hoping our story will be one of those where the baby lives and thrives and the family tells its story again and again.

God of mystery,
some will live
and some will die.
I pray
for our baby.
But I also pray
for all the rest.
How can you pray
for one
and not
for all the others?
Dear God,
all things
are in your hands.
This little one
rests easy
in your hands.
Cradle my daughter
in your arms,
will you?
Comfort her heart
until her baby
sings out
his cry for her.
Let your compassion
be as anointing oil
that heals and hopes,
restoring life
to its rightful balance
once again.
We shall always remember
you in the heart
of our story.

Love, Andrea