“Be still and know that I am God” – Psalm 46:10
My baby girl is sleeping peacefully beside me, but even that doesn’t feel close enough. I want to protect her…to shield her from everything that could bring her pain or confusion or danger. And I want to hold her close and feel her perfect skin against mine. Eliza is the cuddliest baby I have ever known, and while I know it may be partially due to her low muscle tone, I am confident it has so much more to do with her disposition. She is just a perfect little love.
But tomorrow morning, doctors will put my tiny baby girl under general anesthesia and force her bones to return to the sockets where they belong before wrapping her in a hard plaster cast. And all the cuddles where she melts into me will be put on hold…a very long hold. I miss it already. Miss it so much it aches.
I know when I wake her up in the still-dark hours before dawn and transfer her to her carseat, I will not want to put her down. I will want to stay in the moment and take in everything about it before its sanctity is splintered by florescent lights and gloved hands. I know it will feel scary and intrusive when we arrive, and I will want to have my moment at our home…to breathe in her perfect smell and kiss her soft belly. Why have I not kissed that belly more? Why is it that the hard things bring us to an awareness of so many things we wished we had remembered all along? And why is it that this perspective, so clear and obvious as I lie here, will surely fade as things improve?
I don’t know. And I don’t know how tomorrow will go…or exactly how long it will be before I get to really hold my baby again after this surgery. But I will try to sleep, and I will try to surrender. I will be still and trust in the God who created her to hold her through this…and I will call on Him to hold me too.