A repost from Kristen Strong over at Ann Voskamp’s blog:
I kissed my eight-year-old daughter Faith on the forehead as she drifted off to sleep, wishing like crazy we were in her cozy lavender bedroom rather than this sterile, mint-green operating room.
If only she were drifting off to sleep before a play date with friends instead of drifting off to sleep before a date with a surgeon who would operate on her spine to correct her broken neck.
I continued to whisper, “Jesus is here, Jesus is here,” long after she closed her eyes.
I said it for me as much as for her.
I carefully got off her gurney, thankful the children’s hospital in our town let me ride on it with Faith right through the swinging metal doors to the OR.
After the doctor and nurses gave gentle assurances about my girl’s care, I walked with heavy steps back through the oversized doors into the steady, open arms of my husband David.
We plodded along in a half hug down the hall toward the waiting room of the hospital.
After we arrived and David held the door open for me, I stepped in and quickly scanned the room.
And that’s when my knee-high brown boots stopped dead in their tracks. My eyes darted around the waiting room again, and I stood there slack-jawed while shaking my head back and forth.
David, noticing my frozen posture and expression, came up next to me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, following my eyes around to the room.
“What’s wrong?” I repeated, annoyed he was missing the obvious. “It’s . . . it’s this room, David!” I stammered, whirling in a circle and pointing.
“Just look! There are no windows in this room!”
Read the rest here.