Last week a friend had a baby boy. She had planned a home birth but ended up delivering her baby in a hospital. It was the very hospital where Samuel was born. The kids and I happened to be in town for a doctor's appointment and wanted to drop by some food and gifts for them.
It was strange. I didn't want to go...I did...but I didn't. I thought it would be fine, we'd just swing by since we were already so close, drop off the things at the nurses' desk and leave.
But as we entered the maternity ward and heard the different newborn babies crying I started to feel the walls closing in on me. I felt sick. My daughter kept asking question after question, my son was asking questions, I was lost weaving my way through the maze of corridors, the crying babies...I heard myself saying "we're going to find the nurse's desk, give them this stuff and get out of here..."
Not very comforting to the little people. Mama was stressed.
As we rounded a corner my sons pointed a ginger finger and said, "You were down there Mama." None of it looked familiar. I just remember my view in the room.
Finally, we were on our way out...we passed a waiting room. My oldest son said, "Mama, there's the room. That is where we were. I tried to sleep. That's where Mrs. D knit all night, where Desiree and Dawna slept." He spoke in an awed hushed voice, as if he were speaking of a special, sacred place.
He said, "I've always wanted to come back here." He said it in such a happy, satisfied way.
"Why?" (I never wanted to set foot in here again.)
"Because...we are so different. We are changed because of what happened here. God used it to change us." He spoke with a grateful tone and with a maturity far beyond his 13 years.
