In what ways do you feel like a lifeless stump, longing for a tender shoot of hope?

The last two days have been exhausting physically, mentally, and emotionally. I came home this afternoon after leaving my sweet grieving friend. I sat to refresh my soul and the devotional question of reflection was this:

In what ways do you feel like a lifeless stump, longing for a tender shoot of hope?

Monday night I received a phone call from my sweet pregnant friend informing me that she was hemorrhaging and was going to try to get to the hospital. Kudos to my brave friend Tracy that drove her. It was especially dangerous because we have had a strike for the past week and half. The strikers have put up all kinds of barricades and even assault those on motorcycles and vehicles.

Buddy took me on the motorcycle and the drive there was enough to spike up my adrenaline for a while.

After the doctors finally examined her, she was admitted to the hospital. Emily was pregnant with twins but she was only 26 weeks along. I was allowed to stay by her side while a group of prayer warriors stayed outside with her husband, Segundo.

Around midnight they informed us that the doctor on call felt that there was no hope for the babies so he induced her. I asked if we could give her a shot that would help develop the babies' lungs. He responded “it’s too late…it would be a waste, they are not going to make it anyway”. I was quite frustrated but kept calling out for help to the creator of life.

At 5am we entered the delivery room where I assisted the obstetrician with the birth. We delightfully heard the cry of Adalia at 5:22. She was alive and breathing. Praise the Lord! But she needed help: She was 900 grams and extremely fragile.

The head nurse of ICU asked for a neonatal incubator. The assisting nurse said “why? They are going to die anyway”. Again flabbergasted by the lack of value for life I called out to my father. The head nurse insisted and the assistant had to comply.

Minutes passed, all the while Emily was struggling. She was tired and had lost all her strength to push. I had to lightly slap her several times since we were losing her. All the while I continued to call out, begging my Father for strength and wisdom. The doctor asked me to help push. At 5:45 Aaron was born.

He looked so frail and bruised. I went to his side and spoke to him. I told him to fight, that we loved him, that he had a purpose in life. He grabbed my finger. I will never forget that moment.

The last 24 hours have been heartbreaking…

Aaron went to be with His creator at 8:33pm last night. They didn’t inform his mother till this morning.

This morning I went to see Adalia and Emily.

While visiting Adalia in ICU I was pleased to see that I knew the head nurse for this shift. We started chatting about the situation and she asked “why didn’t they give them a shot when they were born to help develop their lungs?”  I responded that I didn’t know about the shot and that no one informed of us of it either. She went to check the medical records. Apparently someone thought that the parents were too poor to afford the shot and the social government doesn’t cover it, so “they” didn’t say anything.

I praise the Lord for all the connections he has given me at the hospital but this experience has showed me how little “power” I have over anything.

My heart ached. I was angry and sad that I could not help. I felt so limited in my knowledge and so incapable. Emily was there while I was talking to the head nurse.

We hugged each other and she sobbed. Later she told me struggled all morning wondering “if God could heal my babies…” is all she said. We both understood what she was thinking. I prayed with her and wept with her. I don’t know the answer to the question "why didn't he?"

So as I meditate on the question for yesterday…

In what ways do you feel like a lifeless stump, longing for a tender shoot of hope?

This is how...

Dear Father help my unbelief.

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