As I stood up, my clammy skin peeled away from the green hospital cot that would soon become a second home for my ravaged body. Yesterday, I was 31 weeks pregnant. Today I was reaching through an incubator wall to trace my thumb up and down the bridge of the tiniest, most perfect nose I had ever seen.
Well, I had seen it twice before on his brothers.
Yesterday had been full of celebration, hope, and daydreams of newborn snuggles, hospital pictures, and coming home outfits. Today, between the physical and emotional pangs of a fresh c-section incision, I could sense that hope was still there, lying somewhere beneath the rubble around me. I was sure it would come up when the dust settled.
But the daydream was gone.
It had died quickly along with any chance of carrying this baby to term.
For the next 29 days, I rode the tsunami wave of gladness and grief, a comingling of emotion that felt somehow deeply innate as if it were exactly how it was supposed to be. Such a strange and appropriate marriage of inclination.
I was glad, grateful to my core, that my baby was alive. We had survived. However, I profoundly grieved the 9 weeks from which we had been robbed. It was and is not lost on me how blessed we were to be sitting in our NICU room with our healthy baby who just needed to grow. But when my cousin gave birth downstairs to a nearly nine-pound baby and went home the next day, as my heart overflowed for her, I would be lying to you if I said grief did not take hold of me and sink its nasty teeth into my bones.
Hour-long round trips to and from the hospital three and four times a day began to feel like day-long treks through the desert without water. I couldn’t stomach missing a moment or milestone with my littlest, but home called for me as well. At any and all cost I refused not to be present for my big boys, but leaving our tiny, helpless baby who should still be in my belly overnight with strangers – no matter how wonderful they were – was cruel and unnatural. All the while pushing my body well beyond its very limits; no time to ever stop and heal from a major and emergent traumatic abdominal surgery.
And yet, gratitude overwhelmed my mama's heart. Still, somehow, celebration existed in the midst of the chaos. Hope did indeed survive in the wreckage. Just as easily as the tears flowed, so did my hallelujahs.
So why am I telling you this story? How in the world does this glimpse into our very personal NICU journey pertain in any fashion to you?
It’s simple. The Bible does not use “ifs” when speaking to trial and tribulation. In John 16:33 Jesus leaves no room for question when he says, “In this world you will have tribulation.” It is not if, it is when you will come face to face with trial. Contrary to popular belief, life alongside Jesus does not always equal living the high life on the highlight reel. In fact, it promises just the opposite. Often as believers, we are called to do hard things. The difference in doing life with Him versus the world is that we aren’t called to do it alone.
It is the suffering that makes us look more like Jesus.
...[W]e also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us (Romans 5:3-5).
But even if I am being poured out as a drink offering upon the sacrifice and service of your faith, I rejoice and share my joy with you all (Philippians 2:17).
Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing (James 1:2-4).
Your hard may not look or walk or talk anything like mine. But we’re not here to compare scars. Rather, we’re here to tend to each other’s wounds. To call out the hallelujah from a neighbor’s heartache. To speak to the joy in your suffering.
My precious friend, even if you are emptied out on the altar of faith, and are staring trial dead in its beady eyes, my prayer for you today is this: that even in the darkest hour of your suffering, joy would be the aroma in the air around you. And that you would accept its anointing with arms stretched wide, believing that the Father has never failed to make good on the promise of hope He makes to His children.
