able

I've never been much one for postural prayer. I don't always bow my head when I talk to my God, and I sure as heck don't find myself on my knees very often. Today was different; I spent yet another twelve hours at Baby Greg's side.

He didn't have a very good day. Once lunchtime had come and gone, Greg decided that he hated everything about life and would just cry for the rest of the afternoon. This meant CPAP that didn't work properly and a heartrate that had me wondering just how much longer he could keep it up. Beds in our wards are low to the ground, and I've never really been short, so by about one o'clock, my back was screaming and my legs were ready to give out. And still Baby Greg cried and thrashed and fought.

So I knelt next to his bed, leaned over his little body and started to pray. I patted his chest, the span of my hand measuring exactly space between his skinny shoulders, and I cried out to God for peace. Peace for Baby Greg so that he could just find sleep. Peace for his mama, facing the loss of yet another child. Peace for us nurses, shattered yet again by a baby who might not make it. In the midst of it all, Greg managed to work his arms free from the blanket swaddling him. As I knelt there, my eyes shut tight, I felt two feathery hands curl around my fingers. I looked down into the wide open eyes of every baby I have ever cared for, and he was pleading with me, like they all do, to just make it stop.

This is not what I thought I was getting myself into when I came here. Truth be told, I was maybe ready for a small break from the intensity of the PICU. Some time away from telling parents horrible news about their children. Hope and healing. Instead here I am, stuck in yet another situation where hope seems the very thing we can't grasp.

We took Marion, Greg's mama, into another room to talk with her about Greg's condition. We sat with her and explained that it's not her fault and it's not our fault and it's not anyone's fault. But things aren't good. And she sat with that stone face that so many mamas wear to mask the hurt. And I felt my life repeating, a record skipping over and over, and I wanted to scream.

And then something happened that I've never experienced before in a family meeting. One of our disciplers, a woman named Lucy, got down on her knees in front of Marion's chair. She took Marion's hands in her own and began to sing quietly.

Able.
Able.
I know He is able.
I know my God is able,
to carry me through.

We joined in, voices quavering and small, and Lucy prayed as tears slid down our cheeks. She prayed strong prayers to a God she was fully convinced was just waiting to work miracles. And then it was finished and we went back to the ward and Marion took Greg in her arms and nothing had changed and I'm left wondering where my miracle is.

Because I know God is listening. I spent hours today at that bedside, my hands covering Greg's body, like so many mamas, thinking somehow my hands could be enough to protect this little one who isn't even my own. I knelt there and prayed over and over the words from a song I once sang in a candlelit church in Germany. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. When I cry, answer me. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. Come and listen to me. And I knew He was listening. I knew His heart was breaking along with mine. And I know that He can do the miracle we're all asking for.



I'm just trying to come to terms with what it will mean if He doesn't.