Two mothers. The first sits up for six nights with her daughter. Sickness crowds the hospital room, pushing out all feeling of normalcy or cheer. An unknown sickness plagues the little girl and her mother’s heart is wounded. Helpless, she sits by her bed and smooths her knotted blonde hair and holds her weak hands. The girl’s eyes, usually bright, are hollow and full of exhaustion. The mother’s love is strong. It keeps her by her side as the hours tick by and the world marches on without stopping.
The second mother lies in bed. Pillows surround her growing belly. Boredom crowds out any sense of normalcy and adventure in her life. Another heart besides her own beats inside of her, and she lies still, day after day. Her baby’s life is cradled in her womb. It is like a safe-house inside her body; a body which mysteriously isn’t safe anymore. The mother’s love is strong. It keeps her on her side as the hours tick by and world marches on without stopping.
The first mother receives the gift of healing, but life will never be the same. The second mother must wait for her deliverance, along with the promise that her life will never be the same.
This week, as I observed these two mothers, I was struck with the depth of love they have. Love which bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. I am reminded once again how beautiful life is– life made more beautiful by all the waiting, believing, hoping, and enduring.