Most nights at 2:00 a.m. I am in the bed sleeping less than comfortably with my wife and a minimum of one child in the bed. Last Thursday though, I spent the night in the Emergency Room with one of my kids. Our son awoke late in the evening with a fever running just below 105 degrees, the highest I had ever seen as a parent. I threw on my clothes, scooped him up, and rushed to the ER. After getting through the all the initial frustrations of this sort of hospital visit (they never seem to be as concerned as I am), my son and I found ourselves in a curtained section of the triage unit. The metallic bed with a crisp white sheet was of no interest to my feverish toddler, but he was insistent that I leave all the lights on. This is typical of my son, since he wants nothing to do with sleep when there is action going on around him. So we waited … and waited … and waited. The nurses were non-existent; the intern was awkward, sleepy, and honestly a bit discomforting in light of the fact I felt I knew more about medicine than he did. The doctor himself might have been quite competent at his profession, though I couldn’t tell since he shot in and out in less than two minutes and I had a hard time seeing him as he stooped on his high perch. But this story isn’t about that.
My son and I spent most of that night sitting and waiting. He was so calm and brave considering the intense surroundings, but he wanted to lay on me the whole time. I have learned that my kids (as most I’m sure) want to be close to mommy or daddy when they are sick. So we sat in a hard hospital chair, my legs stretched out seeking to recline my body in any possible way that would deliver comfort. My back was inches from the curtain separating us from the young woman in the bed next to us. As my boy lay in my arms singing a nursery rhyme about five monkeys jumping on a bed, I listened as a nurse dialogued with our neighbor. She was pregnant. She estimated she was about twenty-four weeks along. Yet she was not sure because she had not had a single gynecological visit so far. The nurse had a Doppler in order to listen to the heartbeat (after three kids I could spot that sound anywhere). There was no heartbeat. The young girl started to sob as the nurse asked if she was sure she was pregnant. My heart began to ache as I sat with my son realizing I may hear a young mother find out her baby is dead inside her. Finally after a few minutes I could finally spot the sound of a faint heartbeat and breathed a sigh of comfort. However, that was short lived.
Another woman walked in who I initially took to be her mother. She spoke in a kind but firm tone to this young woman. It turns out that she was a hospital counselor. She asked our neighbor if she had used today. Only a valium for her nerves earlier, followed by a couple of percacets. The counselor asked how many pills she takes on an average day. Ten. I realized I was sitting a few feet from a drug addict who was doping up herself and an unborn baby. The heartbreak I felt a few moments earlier transformed into anger. How could a person do that to themselves AND a baby? The result of the conversation that I was intruding upon was that this young, drug addict mom was going to be transferred to a treatment center in Louisville, KY. The counselor wished her good luck and encouraged her to get clean for the sake of her baby. After a few sentences waxing eloquent about how she’s learned her lesson and realizes that those dealers don’t really care about her, she asked if they could give her something to take the edge off and help her sleep. Apparently hospitals don’t give you drugs if you are an addict detoxing. So instead she asked if she could go smoke a cigarette. Again rage bubbled in my gut at a woman who would impose these poisons on a helpless baby in the womb. Then it happened. I saw her face as she walked by out to smoke. It was just a moments glance, but enough to completely crush my hardened judgment. She looked like a teenager, and I pictured a girl who could be my own daughter in just a few years.
I don’t know her name. We never spoke, and it is probably safe to assume I will never see her again. But I will never forget her. In that moment I no longer looked at her through the lenses my preconceived judgment of drug abuse, child neglect, horrible blemish on society, and the host of others I had placed her under. Whether any of those are or aren’t true really does not matter. I looked in her face and saw a person created in the image of a Holy God; a person who’s heart is black and hardened with sin, just like mine was at one time; I saw a person who needed good news, who needed a savior. I saw a person who Jesus’ blood could cleanse from any unrighteousness.
When she came back, I pulled out my Bible and began to read to my son. At least that was what I told him. I wanted to read to this young, scared, detoxing girl who I now had a burden to share. So I opened to the only place I knew to open at 2:00 a.m. in the morning. I opened my Bible to the Gospel of John and began to read. I probably read about two chapters before I put my Bible away and prayed. I don’t know if she listened. Even if she was listening, I have no idea if she was in her right mind enough to comprehend. But one passage in particular grabbed my attention and I pray it grabbed hers as well:
He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God (John 1:10-12)
I pray even now that the Holy Spirit has brought about the new birth in her life. Would you pray that with me?
We know God loves us and wants a relationship with us because He has spoken to us.
