I will tell the story in
time, but for now, this is all you need know: the transplant has been approved,
and the 12-hour surgery takes place Monday.
It has been a whirlwind of activity since I first became connected with this family in January. I have hoped; I have laughed; I have feared; I have fought passionately on their behalf—sometimes against foreseen foes, and sometimes to defend them against those who should have been on their side but had deferred to fear, cynicism, or utilitarianism. I have been totally in my element at times and completely clueless as to what to do at other times. I have learned a lot of Spanish, including the phrase “señales de humo,” which is how Hector jokes we will communicate when we meet each other face to face. Hopefully that will be more effective than language has been. Our miscommunications are comical in retrospect but were certainly less than humorous at the time.
My heart overflows and my spirit swells with joy, for God has been faithful. Hector, Tere, and Abner are all safe and enjoying the sights of New Haven, CT, in the company of a church family that has been nothing short of a Godsend, wrapped protectively in a blanket of prayers pouring in from all over the world. I have learned so much from them. I have learned what it is to be joyful in hope. I was reminded what it is to fight in the face of impossibility. I have wrestled at length with the admonition that perfect love drives out fear, and indeed I have been convicted to adopt that statement into my day-to-day actions.
And today, I wept for them. I mean, there have been moments of tears—generally out of frustration or the fear that my inadequacey would result in failure of the whole mission—but I never truly wept. Today I did. I crumpled on the floor and sobbed for 45 minutes, and tears of joy and relief and thankfulness and praise spilled together onto the furry green rug on my floor that so desperately needs vaccuumed.
Against all odds. Despite all doubts. In light of a father’s persistent hope.
And so I sit here with a bowl of ramen, my fingers stuttering hesitantly over the keyboard, aching with the inability to express in words the emotion erupting from my soul. I savor the chance to fight on behalf of the least of these, and I cannot help but glance at the pictures hanging on my wall of all of the little ones I have loved who did not get the second chance Abner is getting and whisper a prayer of thanks, for they are the ones through whom I was taught to love this way, and thus how to fight this way.
And so all things work together for good in the end, and I rejoice in the gift of one child’s second chance.
Five more days.
It has been a whirlwind of activity since I first became connected with this family in January. I have hoped; I have laughed; I have feared; I have fought passionately on their behalf—sometimes against foreseen foes, and sometimes to defend them against those who should have been on their side but had deferred to fear, cynicism, or utilitarianism. I have been totally in my element at times and completely clueless as to what to do at other times. I have learned a lot of Spanish, including the phrase “señales de humo,” which is how Hector jokes we will communicate when we meet each other face to face. Hopefully that will be more effective than language has been. Our miscommunications are comical in retrospect but were certainly less than humorous at the time.
My heart overflows and my spirit swells with joy, for God has been faithful. Hector, Tere, and Abner are all safe and enjoying the sights of New Haven, CT, in the company of a church family that has been nothing short of a Godsend, wrapped protectively in a blanket of prayers pouring in from all over the world. I have learned so much from them. I have learned what it is to be joyful in hope. I was reminded what it is to fight in the face of impossibility. I have wrestled at length with the admonition that perfect love drives out fear, and indeed I have been convicted to adopt that statement into my day-to-day actions.
And today, I wept for them. I mean, there have been moments of tears—generally out of frustration or the fear that my inadequacey would result in failure of the whole mission—but I never truly wept. Today I did. I crumpled on the floor and sobbed for 45 minutes, and tears of joy and relief and thankfulness and praise spilled together onto the furry green rug on my floor that so desperately needs vaccuumed.
Against all odds. Despite all doubts. In light of a father’s persistent hope.
And so I sit here with a bowl of ramen, my fingers stuttering hesitantly over the keyboard, aching with the inability to express in words the emotion erupting from my soul. I savor the chance to fight on behalf of the least of these, and I cannot help but glance at the pictures hanging on my wall of all of the little ones I have loved who did not get the second chance Abner is getting and whisper a prayer of thanks, for they are the ones through whom I was taught to love this way, and thus how to fight this way.
And so all things work together for good in the end, and I rejoice in the gift of one child’s second chance.
Five more days.
