Comfort and Joy

"I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow." - Jeremiah 31:13

Today on the road home for Christmas, I finally permitted myself to feel. I have been in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for three weeks and the culture therein lends itself mainly to "going" at full speed in order to keep up with each new critical patient that rolls into the unit.

Twenty-five miles outside of shedding my white coat and stethoscope, the wave of emotions that I had not allowed myself to feel swept over me, and I grieved for you.

You, who with weeks to months to live, still refuse a new heart. You remember the surgery from your youth that hurt and changed your life so much. Though you really need several more days of dialysis and some medical fine-tuning before going home safely, you demand to go home before Christmas...and we will let you, because we want you to enjoy this one since it may be your last.

You, presenting to us unconscious, with unmistakable signs of abuse; already departed, yet heart and blood pumping, lungs expanding and contracting only by a machine...until they are ready to let you go. You, with sweet golden hair, perfect, were alive and laughing 24 hours ago before one snatched away your life in anger. Now the relatives wail by your side. The grim organ receivers, who although life-givers in title, seem like vultures circling in the periphery.

I grieve for you, little one, as you cough up the soot that you inhaled in a house fire. You attempt to pry your eyes open after a twelve-hour "nap" on the ventilator, totally/painfully unaware that this fire claimed the life of your little sister. Your daddy bravely swallows tears, joyful that you are awake but ruined at how to tell you.

I mourn for you, chronic children, who by genetics, environment, or circumstance, have found yourselves medically fragile. You are here for simple pneumonia...but this set on the background of countless hospital admissions that have stolen your childhood and prevented you from being "normal."

And for you parents, grandparents, and loved-ones, who are also hurting. You who manage a brave face every morning and desperately search for hope amidst our many words. You whose tears and prayers fall before God like offerings, grieving, pleading, bargaining with Him for healing, miracles, or a different outcome.

For three weeks, I have dutifully taken your stories, thoughtfully written your orders, and carefully detailed your daily care plan. But today, twenty-five miles removed from beeping monitors, lines & tubing, and ventilators, I allow myself to feel...and grieve for you.

This week of Christmas, I cling to the promises of God to bring you comfort and joy. I remember a family who lost a child and used their experience to help other people adopt. I think of the miracle of a woman who returned love and kindness to the ones who took the life of her husband. I remember the life of a man, who stripped of family, friends, and estate, still found the strength to keep praising God. And I pray this grace and strength for you.

God, this is not from you. I do not understand these sufferings, but I find solace in the fact that they grieve you too...and that Christ bore them all. Thank you for being near to wipe every tear from our eyes; thank you for your promise to make all things new. Thank you for Jesus. We believe your promise for comfort and joy; this week more than ever, may these families...may we...have the strength and humility to embrace them.