If she is night, then I am day. We are completely different. She is quiet; I don’t shut up. She is very serious; I giggle often, even by myself, at myself. She is young; I am…um…not. She is homeless; I have a cute little house. She has no one; I am surrounded by family.
I think you get the point, we’re polar opposites. As far as I can find, we only share one characteristic…we’re both female.
She was the reason I was at the NICU today. Her baby girl is fighting for her life. It’s a truly heartbreaking scene. A baby, not much bigger than my hand, hooked up to wires, feeding tubes, and all sorts of other medical things that look absolutely foreign to me. It’s pitiful. It’s unfair. It’s life.
I’m thankful that my face is covered by a surgical mask. I’m fighting tears, and even though I could normally qualify for the “World’s Biggest Sap” award, this scene would make a Navy Seal weak. All I can do is put my hand on the glass, close my eyes, and pray, “Hail Mary, full of grace…”
Meanwhile, she stands there, looking at her little miracle. She’ll stand there for 45 minutes. Just looking.
And I look at her. I study her; I pray for her. I wonder how she’ll raise this child, and I’m filled with pity. But, I’m also in awe. While looking at her baby girl, her face is calm. She has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen…ever. Her features soften, and her eyes actually sparkle. And, I’m absolutely amazed. She has forgotten everything else in the room–me, the nurses, the beeps of the machines–it’s as if we are all just a part of this moment. Her moment.
A mother’s love. It’s our common ground. Regardless of race, socio-economic status, education, class, or any of the other completely unimportant standings of today’s society, a mother’s love is universal. There are no words to describe it, no picture adequately captures it. But when you see it, you’ll know it.
The beauty of this moment is something unearthly; it is something holy. Is it possible to get a glimpse of God in something so simple? After today, I believe so.