"I am exhausted in body and soul, but I need to tell you more of Grace's story before I can go to bed.
The past two days have been hard, dark days down in the hospital. All of a sudden, it seems, things got sad. One of our long-term patients who's been with us since the start of the outreach went to be with Jesus last night. We rejoice in her complete healing, but the ache of her passing is strong, especially among the team of nurses who threw themselves so wholeheartedly into her care.
On D Ward, a shadow seems to have crept quietly across the sunshine that we've been enjoying. There is an edge of pain starting to sharpen some of the stories we've been watching unfold, but none cuts so deep as Grace's.
After her first good day, Grace took a turn for the worse. Yesterday her breathing started becoming more laboured, her little body struggling harder and harder. We took an x-ray and found something that none of us had expected. We knew Grace was damaged; we just didn't know how badly. In addition to her club feet and cleft lip and tiny bottom jaw, Grace was also born with a heart that's massively enlarged. We don't have the technology to diagnose the problem any further than that, but the silhouette on the screen confirmed the path ahead.
Grace will not be able to have surgery. Her body would not be able to withstand the anesthesia, so even if we could get her fat enough, there's nothing we can do.
We had many talks with her parents over the last twenty-four hours. Long, wrenching discussions where the truth sits between you, dark and heavy. This baby is too broken. There's nothing we can do.
Anthony, Grace's dad, came up to me around lunchtime today and told me that Grace's three older sisters were missing her, that they wanted to see their baby sister. I asked him how old they were, and he told me ten, eight and five. I asked their names, and his smile broke wide.
Testimony. Miracle. Favor. And the small one is Grace.
He asked if they should make the long journey from their home in Benin and come to the ship to see Grace, and when I told him that there was nothing more that we could offer them and that it's best if the reunion happens in their home, he paused for a long moment. So what does this mean, he asked me, hope and fear fighting in his eyes. What will we do now?
We talked again about Grace's problems, about the fact that even in America this would be a badly broken baby. We agreed together that medicine holds no more promise for Grace, especially not here in West Africa, and then I saw the hope win out.
So we will take her home and we will trust God for the miracle.
The rational, medical side of me wanted to contradict him. To shake him and make him understand that his baby might not survive the trip home, that she is very, very sick and that we will all be surprised if she is still alive to come to the appointment that they desperately want next week with the Feeding Program. To make him admit that coming back, getting another chest x-ray and finding a normal heart is the most unlikely thing in the world. That's it's impossible and useless even to hope.
Instead I found myself nodding, agreeing, speaking out words of life over Grace and her family. Because the thing is, miracles aren't miracles because they happen every day. It's not a miracle if you can plan it, explain it, expect it. The rational side of me knows that, barring a direct intervention of the hand of God, Grace will not live much longer. She has days, weeks at the most, before her tiny body just gives out. But the rest of me, the side that's seen the unexplainable more than once before? That side joins her parents in pleading God for the miracle of her healing.
And so we taught them to give her formula through the feeding tube, packed bags full of supplies and sent them home to Testimony, Miracle, and Favor. They thanked me over and over for what we've done, little as it seems to us. We prayed together for that miracle, and I gathered small Grace in my arms and walked with them down the gangway to the waiting car. Next week, they called to me as they drove away. We will bring you a fat baby next week.
Before they went, Anthony came to me, sleeping Grace tiny in his massive hands. He held her out, proud papa that he is, so that I could take photos of her. Show them, he told me. Show the people who are praying the baby they are praying for. Show them our little Grace.
You're praying, aren't you? You always do. I know that and it sustains me in the long nights when I lie awake, wondering whether my pager will go off, whether something tragic will happen. Pray for our little Grace. Pray for the miracle, and pray for strength for her parents if God chooses a different path."
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