When I was pregnant with Micah I was anemic. It got so out of control I ended up seeing a hematologist. Those of you who have followed my blog since Emily passed away, may remember that first doctor’s visit. It was the first time I ever suffered a panic attack. It is only by the Lord’s strength I managed to get inside that building where I had been so many times before with my precious Emily.
Over a year later, I am better able to step outside myself and see that day from a new perspective. I wanted to share with you what I see now.
That day I could not see the pain surrounding me in that waiting room. I could see only my pain. The stinging of my own tears blurred the vision of so many others barely hanging on to their own lives, slumped in uncomfortable chairs, wishing they could be healthy.
But there was one woman there who watched me cry desperate unending tears, and despite her own circumstances reached out to me. She told me what drew her to me was her belief that I must have been diagnosed with cancer and her sadness over my beautiful, thick hair falling out. Mind you, I was great with child, yet her thoughts were on my hair. I kind of chuckle over this now, but I think I understand why she thought more about my hair than the baby I carried.
She didn’t look at me and see a death sentence. She saw hope with a tough road ahead. She didn’t see a motherless child. She saw a child with a hairless mother…both of them alive and kicking.
She knew I was grief-stricken, and even though she did not truly understand the grief I was living until we had spoken in more detail, she held in her thin, frail hands, hope, faith, and a future. I wish now I had gotten her name so that I could have found a way to tell her how much her kindness meant to me that day.
We are all in a waiting room. Life surrounds us with hurting people and deals out a goodly amount of pain to our own selves. We will all die, some sooner, some later. But even with all that staring us in the face,
Hebrews 11:1
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