Update on a Miracle

 

[Preemie: source]

A few weeks ago, I posted on some friends of mine who had just given birth to a preemie.  I originally posted that the baby was born at about 23 weeks.  Fortunately, the baby was born at 25 weeks, still very early.  They visited her as often as they could over the several weeks she was in the NICU, waiting to go home.  I had a lot of empathy because my first child was a NICU baby.  It becomes harder when, as for them, the NICU is almost two hours away, and they had an army of kids at home.  

[Taking baby home: source]

The joyous day came when they were able to take home their precious bundle, the miracle we'd all been praying for.  It was still scary because it was flu season, not to mention it was in the middle of a pandemic.  And there was the army of kids, all of who could bring something nasty from wherever they went.  

[The chilling, red life flight copters: source]

Recently, they had to rush their precious little one to the hospital, even life flight her due to an infection.  Whenever I see those red helicopters, my heart clenches for whatever family has a loved one there.  I don't have any updates, but I know I would have heard if there had been negative developments.  

[babies=miracles: source]

Based on FaceBook posts, it would seem life is settling back to normal and that the baby is okay.  I know what it is to lose a baby.  I bonded with this mother over our mutual stories of being mothers to angels.  Please continue to pray that the baby thrives.  I know life can go south quickly, but I also believe in miracles.  Let us continue to pray for theirs.  

The Holidays: Learning Empathy

 

[Happy Santa: source]

I used to be able to just celebrate the holidays from Thanksgiving to New Years as if they were, indeed, the "Most Wonderful Time of the Year."  It didn't occur to me that the holidays could be anything but wonderful.  Of course, there were many movies of characters saying "Bah Humbug" to the holidays.  It was a trope, a thing, something other people suffer but not me because, as we all know, the holidays are a time of joy!  Of light!  Of decorations and presents and nonstop delight!  

[Cemetery: Source]

And then, my baby died.  She died in the summer, so at least I can't curse any holiday's name because it took her.  But that first year, it was so hard to muster a smile, a laugh, a glimmer of joy.  Christmas songs made me cry because they were all about babies I couldn't hold, pregnant mothers who would soon hold their live babies, and joy everyone else was feeling even as red, green, and all other colors disappeared into shades of gray.  Other people said, "Happy holidays," and I'd fake the same smile I'd muster when people said, "How are you?" as if they really wanted to know.  I wanted to answer back, "Bah, humbug, I'm dying inside.  What is there to be happy about?"  

[A hand up: source]

I fought the darkness.  I threw myself into making Christmas a joy and a wonder for my kids, for friends in need, for anyone I could.  I hoped if I brought them a bit of delight, I may find some somewhere.  And with each bit of service, I'd slip another piece of paper into my angel's jar as a gift to her, to be opened and read together on Christmas morning.  Every gift or kind deed was in her name and for her. This helped, to some extent, anyway.  And what helped, even more, was the little reminders that the entire point of Christmas is NOT anything under the tree but the gift of the atonement, the sacrifice of the Lord to overcome death and sin for us all. 

[The Light of Christmas: source]

10 years later, I look at those who see only the bleak winter and the blacks and grays of another holiday season without their loved one with nothing but empathy.  Not pity, but a feeling of kinship.  I can see color and joy and light and love again, but I can't expect others to do likewise, especially when their hearts were more recently ripped out, leaving behind a bloody pulp of pain.  I get the loneliness of a world where everyone expects them to smile over the flavors of the season even as they feel the bite of darkness and death.  I pray they, too, will one day find the peace and healing that comes with the Lord's healing hand.  But I don't expect smiles, especially on cue.  I hope and pray that, one day, they will begin to see red and green, feel the dim rays of the sun, and know that a return of light, life, and joy will one day come again as they find sweet reunion with their loved one.