Beth's Glorious Day

Peter, Paul, Beth and I went to a nursing home today--with the kids' choir from our church--for Christmas caroling and a Gospel message.

I have been deeply in love with babies since I was very little.  I know they bless others enormously.  Once you're a baby lover, you're always one.  My dad is similarly affected; that man always makes a beeline to the nearest baby, whether he knows her or not.  He prefers girl babies but boy babies will do.

I didn't set out with Beth today specifically so she could be a blessing.  Mostly, I thought about her crying a lot for Daddy, and him being extremely stressed by the time we arrived home.  I decided to take her along.  She would enjoy the caroling, I thought.  And there's the fact that I always miss her, even when I'm gone an hour at the grocery store.

The patients were taken with Beth and instinctively touched her hands, in a friendly greeting.  At first I was scared.  I hadn't thought about this possibility--about them touching her.  What if she ended up gravely ill and in the hospital, as a result of my taking her there?  I knew I could live without her through Christ's strength, but the hole in my heart left by her absence?  That would never heal.

These were fleeting thoughts.

How bad of a virus could she get, I wondered, after the first three patients touched her.  She's already been ill with what we think was H1N1, and she's covered for regular seasonal flu, due to a vaccine.  What's more, at nearly one year old, she could recover easily from RSV, as a nursling.  I didn't know what other scary things might be lurking.

I pushed away thoughts of bacterial meningitis.

During the singing I stood to the side of the room, holding Beth.  I looked around at the patients.  I thought I saw loneliness...sadness....bitterness.  I couldn't find a single smile, despite the children's voices blessing the room.

If my own kids choose this for me someday, would I manage a smile when a church came singing?

It was a nice facility.  Clean.  Attractive.  But, it was still a facility.  They were still being cared for by strangers, who were working very hard, making between $8.00 and $11.00 an hour.  Elderly-care and childcare are two of the worst-paid professions.  Sad, but true.  It has always angered me.  How can we, as a nation, do this?  Why don't we value our young and our old?

There was only one staff member bringing people to see us sing.  At first, only five patients were in the room.  Then, gradually, about six more were brought in--some toward the end.  Two patients wheeled themselves in.

The children sang beautifully.

It ended after about forty minutes, which I think was too short.  Afterwards, all the children and the adult escorts went around to greet people.

I knew my Beth could bless these people, if I took her around to each one.  In my head, I spoke to Him.  "Okay, Lord.  You gave her to me to be a blessing.  She is everything to me.  I love her more than I can express.  And I think you want me to share her.  Protect her, and let her bless."

I then circled the room, stopping in front of each patient.  They all touched her, smiled at her, talked to her.  They were all blessed.  So much so, that I didn't want to leave.

She is in bed now, asleep.  I am praying that nothing is going through her body right now, as a result of her glorious day.

Deep down, I know she isn't mine. She is His.  I learned this difficult fact about children on November 18, 2000, when I was told during an ultrasound that the baby boy I was carrying had passed away.  There had been no sign of miscarriage, and we were 21 weeks along; we were shocked.

If I hadn't already learned this (that my children are His), I wouldn't have been able to take Beth around today, knowing she would be touched.

Many times since that fateful November ultrasound, I have had occasion to look back, and say, "If I hadn't gone through that, I wouldn't know _____."  

I can't say I would choose it, if I could go back in time.  No.  I would never choose it.

But I'm grateful for it, nonetheless.