loss

Another little sparrow fell today.

I was on an admin day and didn't know how things were going on the wards, so around shift change I stopped by the ICU to check on O'Brien. I was met by Hannah, who shook her head, her face speaking volumes before she ever said a word. He's going, she told me, and I looked to his bedside where his mama, Evegenie, held him, the monitor showing numbers so, so low.

I knelt by his mama's side and put my hand on her knee, explaining to her that his heart was slowing down. That it wouldn't be long now. And as I spoke the words, the numbers fell to zero, and I knew that he was gone. I took the little tiny stethoscope that hung on his IV pole and listened even though I knew I wouldn't hear anything. I'm so sorry. His heart has stopped.

The tears streamed down Evegenie's face, falling unchecked onto my hands as I gently peeled the tape from his cheeks and nose, pulling out the tubes that had been hurting him for so long. We took out his IV as Evegenie sobbed quietly, making the same, wounded noises that every mama makes when her heart gets shattered.

She looked up to the translator, and asked if I could take a photo for her, and so I flew to my room for my camera. I stood by the side of his empty bed as she held him up for me to focus my lens, and I took the picture, praying that it would come out even though I couldn't see a thing through my tears.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing all the things that you do when a baby goes back to Jesus. We bathed him and dressed him in a soft little pair of overalls. We gathered food and water to sustain her on the journey back to Benin. We made prints of his hand and foot and laminated every photo of him we could find so his mama would have something more to take home than just the little broken baby who had flown too soon.

It feels like falling, trying to make sense of all this. Like the ground has just dropped out from underneath me and I can't find a place to stand. I don't understand why our prayers made the difference between life and death one day but not another. I don't understand why so many of these children have to go back, why the only reason O'Brien died is because he was born in West Africa and not the first world.

I do know that Christ has overcome, that the victory over death has been won, whether I can understand it or not. I know that I've seen a different kind of miracle today, one where the healing is forever, not just for a few weeks.

It's just hard to fall so many times and not know when it's safe to get back up.

I'll write about Ghana tomorrow, but right now all I can think about is Vincent.

He slipped away this morning, early, before I came on to work. His breathing slowed and then just. stopped. And I can't help thinking that, out of the whole year, this would be the best weekend to die; the weekend when no one doubts the truth of heaven, when the whole world is celebrating a risen Saviour. When all over the country there are huge gatherings of people in their finest clothes, dancing and singing under the palm trees because death has no sting.

No sting. Maybe that wasn't quite true this morning when I pulled back the curtain in the empty ward where he lay, when I saw his face, so still in death. It stung a little just then, until I remembered the truth, and for the first time I really understood what they mean when they say it'll set you free.

My heart was free then. To know that Vincent is no longer in pain, that he's resting in the arms of a God who is very much alive, very much in the business of putting things right. It was a feeling like breathing again after being underwater for far too long, like I noticed only just then that I'd been holding my breath for the past few weeks, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only this time the falling shoe looks like peace and comfort and release.

All day, people have been coming to me to hug me and pay their condolences, and it feels like I should be standing at the foot of his coffin, receiving them in place of the ones who turned away. For the first time, the message on the captain's board didn't ask for prayer for the family, just for those who cared for him and today, for the first time, there was no difference between the two.

I lost a brother today, but it feels like flying to know that he is free.