Anchored On A Calm Day

It has been a while since we could say this, but Samuel has had a relatively calm day. Thank you, Lord. It seems that the current plan is to let the oscillator and the nitric oxide do their work on his lungs. The hard part is that he has now been on the oscillator for two full days and they have only barely weaned him. It feels like his lungs have been taking one step forward and two steps back since we’ve been here. Please pray that his current treatment would alleviate the pulmonary hypertension and allow him to eventually breathe on his own.

Today marks a milestone in Samuel’s life: the first day that he has some of mommy’s milk in his tummy. He is now getting a constant drip of thawed breast milk through a feeding tube in his right nostril. Though not a medical hurdle, it was nice to have something to celebrate. As long as the additional blood now needed in his gut to digest the food does not diminish the blood flow to his heart and lungs, this can only be a good thing.

Another cool thing today was that Kathryn’s mom, Pat, got to spend a good part of the day with Samuel. Kathryn’s uncle and cousins took Caleb and Joel today, and from the sound of it, they had a blast (no surprise). Since we can only have two of us at his bed at a time Kathryn, Grandma, and I took turns swapping out.

Even on these calmer days the CICU can be a stressful place. There was a “Code Blue” announced over the hospital intercom a few minutes ago. There have probably been 8-10 since we’ve been here. It was wild to see half a dozen doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists dart towards the door waiting to hear the location announced. Kathryn and I immediately found ourselves praying for the patient, their family, and the doctors.

I’ve also found that, too often, my emotions are hitched to the numbers on the monitors around Samuel, which go up and down regularly. When they go in a favorable direction, I feel lighter and more hopeful. On the other hand, when they are trending in the other direction, I move toward anxiety. I constantly need to remind myself that my hope is not in monitors. It is not in doctors or modern medicine. And though we pray desperately for Samuel's healing, ultimately our hope is not even anchored there. My hope is in Jesus Christ in whom we have received life that is not limited to this world and these bodies. Because of the grace of God, just as Jesus was raised from the dead, those who place their trust in Him will be given a new body in a new heaven and a new earth. One description of this in the book of Revelation is particularly hopeful: “’and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.’ And He who sits on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’” I look forward to that.

I’m aware that, to those of you who do not believe in God or who would not consider yourselves followers of Jesus, this may sound crazy or weird, but if that is true – and I believe that it is – it is the best news in the world. Now, I wish that my emotions were more attached to this truth than they are most of the time, but these are the convictions around which we orient our lives and they anchor our hope.