I stepped out of my truck and almost stepped on it. I saw the flash of yellow right before my foot hit the ground. I stretched my step out, which made me stumble a bit. I walked toward the hospital but then reversed my steps and stood looking at the pacifier in the parking lot. I took its picture and then headed inside.
I thought about the child who woke from groggy warmth inspired sleep to find that their mouth was empty. That reality made them sad and lonely, so they began to whimper and cry. Without language, they tried to communicate with sounds and straining, but to no avail. Of course, the backup pacifier was not in the bag, so tension rose in the room as the baby objected.
I thought of the parents who had not noticed the tiny plastic ping as it hit the concrete. They were rushing to get inside the hospital and a bit harried from juggling the baby, life and the situation that awaited in the building. As their baby struggled, they wanted to help. They searched each pocket of the diaper bag, but found nothing to help soothe the child. It was almost too much.
I thought of the patient in the room waiting to see family and love. I wondered how it looked for tension and stress to walk into the room. The lights in the room were dim. The news had been complicated. Now, they sat in the room with tears in their eyes and crying in their ears. It looked like the end.
They remembered the disciples sitting in a darkened room on that long Saturday, so long ago, a room also filled with tears and wrenching sadness. Those disciples recalled some of Jesus’ final words, “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you” (John 14:18) and “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you” (John 14:27), and “your grief will turn to joy (John 16:20).
I walked into the hospital remembering we follow the Lord who brings life out of death.