We were about five hours deep into our hospital stay. We had moved rooms and were awaiting instructions on what we should do next. E’s respiration appeared to be getting labored so I called the nurse in and asked if that was something we should be worried about. She replied with a simple “I’ll be right back.” The doctor came back in and confirmed that yes, it was unusual. I was keeping my sister (the trauma nurse) updated via text, and she immediately called me. She said “I just want you to know that they’ll probably have to intubate her. It will relieve some distress on her lungs while they continue working to figure out what’s wrong, but I just didn’t want you to be scared by it.” I told her I was fine (and I really was), and that if that’s what they needed to do, then of course I was okay with it.
We hung up the phone and for the first time, the room started bustling. New people came in. Machines. A little more urgency. I still wasn’t panicked. I believed they were simply doing what doctors and nurses do.
The entire time, I felt peace. But more people started streaming in. I heard someone mention “shock.” And for the first time, I felt like there could be something happening that was more than the doctors were prepared for. Still without panic, I prayed my first and only verbal prayer. You should know…I’ve learned over the years how beautiful it can be to converse with God all throughout the day. Not always with words, but sometimes just with thoughts, with acknowledgments of his presence, with an intentional focus toward what He’s speaking into my heart. But in that moment, I paused. Physically paused, closed my eyes, and spoke but five words.
“Have mercy on us, Lord.”
That, of course, is a loaded request. What I meant was, please spare her life. Please work a miracle and let her little body figure out what it’s supposed to do. Please reveal the medication to give her that will get everything working right. Please allow us to at least be able to medivac her to the nearest Ped ICU. But as you already know, that’s not the answer we received.
What I learned that day, and what I continue to learn every single day, is that God offers his mercy in many ways. His ability to stand with us, carry us, serve us where we are, and give us what we need before we even (if ever) know we need it, extends far beyond the boundaries we set up in our own minds for how that mercy is supposed to be doled out.
As I reflect on that day, as I do nearly every day of my life, the complexity, timing and personalization of his mercy is revealed to me more and more. I think about when we first arrived and the nurses tried to find a vein for an IV, prodding time and time again, there was an inexplicable peace in our Elizabeth’s eyes, as though she had angels holding her, protecting her from the pain. I think about how over the 8 or so hours we were at the hospital, I never once felt panicked, even when the room was filled with 20 people – doctors from all different departments in the hospital, pharmacists, respiratory techs, you name it. It was a peace that, to this day, I cannot explain in a worldly way. I think about how in the month leading up to her passing, in an unexpected break from his extended late night work schedule, Adrian was able to come home from work early almost every day, read to the girls and then rock Elizabeth to sleep.
2020 has been a year of extreme loss – loss of life, loss of jobs, loss of security. It’s also been a year of struggle – a struggle of humanity against individualism, of wealth against want, of humility against stubbornness, of truth against lies and half-truths, of identity and belief and a sense of worth and belonging. It’s been a year of tension, of anger, of heartbreak, of learning, of unlearning, of self-reflection and of change (hopefully). And in the midst of it all, it’s been challenging to see the mercy in it all. Where is God’s mercy when so many are hurting?
I’ve asked myself that question time and time again – in the moments where the pain of Elizabeth’s absence makes me physically ill. In the {daily} moments when I continue to walk with Nora through conversations and emotions that challenge my belief in how real the small divide between earth and eternity really is. In the moments when I see families around me with three children or with sisters matching in their cute outfits. Or even worse, in the moments when I see people devaluing life itself.
But the mercy is there. It may not meet our expectations. But that’s because our expectations are earth-bound. God’s are infinite.
Do I wish I had Elizabeth back? No question. But I know I will see her again. So then the question becomes, what am I going to do with what God has allowed to happen in our lives? Do I dwell on my disappointment of not receiving the packaged mercy that I desired or do I choose to see the mercy as it was given and use that to do what I was sent here to do in the first place – to share my hope so that others may also choose to walk in faith through the small divide?
I hope my life will reflect that I choose the latter. And I hope yours will too.
Katherine R. Milton 