There is a tall White Pine outside this hospital room window and I sit on the bed and watch evenly-spaced branches bow low over the parking lot. A soft breeze blows and long needles shimmer—arced branches wave unhurriedly.
My boy is sleeping in the bed next to me—lulled into slumber by the heat of the infection he still fights off in his body. On the last day of July his appendix ruptured and I held him tight behind a curtain in the ER—willing his pain to sleep as we waited out the slow turning of the wheel of modern medicine.
I’m scared, he told me, before they wheeled him off to surgery.
Me too, I wanted to say, but instead I prayed with him and he gave me a butterfly kiss and I had to walk away from him—singing Jesus Loves Me in my mind.
Jeff and I held hands and prayed in the waiting room and I leaned on his shoulder and closed my eyes.
I guess I feel like crying because I’m so tired, I said.
And he just pulled me tighter.
And when the surgeon came out smiling it felt like I’d just come up for air from underneath a heavy ocean. This doctor is our new hero—he only just operated on our oldest the week before. After he gives us the run down and shows us pictures of the rupture, he gives us a crooked grin.
Guys, I don’t know … do you have any more kids?
We laugh, the three of us, and it feels so good I could cry.
Later, Jeffrey would tell me, God was there.
He would look me in the eye and whisper, I felt him.
I sit on this hospital bed and look out that window at that solitary pine swaying and I let the rhythm of its gentle undulation touch the tired parts of my body. I’ve never been so happy to say goodbye to July and I pray for a brighter August—for something, something to ring the bell of joy.
And that White Pine just looks on, speaking Christmas into my tired like a million brightly wrapped presents are tucked under its skirts.
Check previous Tuesday posts for prior verses.