For Such A Time As This

My dear, beautiful toddler girl,

You woke up bright and early this morning, crying for Daddy as you do most mornings, in hopes that Saturday has arrived. But today is only Wednesday, and Daddy was already gone to work. So I rocked you a while, letting you doze a bit more in my arms and hoping you would wake again with a that sweet smile of yours. Soon your eyes popped open and you wanted breakfast right away. Your little sisters woke up, and we all went to the kitchen where you each scarfed down a piece of your favorite "jelly toast" and a bowl of yogurt and granola. As usual. 

You love repetition. So do I.

We all got dressed, I made coffee, you three sillies ran around squealing and playing picnic on the living room floor simultaneously until I finally gathered everything up and opened the garage door. Somehow we managed to load the van and make it to the library, only 17 minutes late. The Aquarium brought sea creatures for you to see and touch. You held out one finger and touched the spiny sea urchin, the bumpy starfish, and the rough shell of the hermit crab. I was so proud of you.

We looked at books, played with blocks, you were all very kind to the other children who were there. We checked a few things out to take home, and finally went back to the van, buckled car seats and ate some sandwiches on our way back home. I'm slowly learning to get out of the house and take you on more little adventures like these. We'll get the hang of it one day.

You each enjoyed a few licks of a promised lollipop on the porch, together unloaded a pocket of my diaper bag while I had a quick chat with the next-door neighbour outside, and then I helped you all up the stairs and finally tucked you all into bed for naps, later than preferred. As usual. We'll get the hang of it one day.

The house is quiet and still now. 

And me? I'm thinking of all this. But I'm also thinking of those mamas in France who wish with all their hearts this afternoon that their babies were safe and sound, napping in their upstairs nurseries. I cannot even imagine the aches in their hearts and minds.

I have waited long enough. It is time for me to say something I've been wanting to say for a terribly long time.

Listen close.

My sweet girl, you are growing up faster than I ever imagined you would. When you were a gorgeous, sleeping newborn I held you, curled up in my arms, and imagined the day when your little feet would be heard pattering around the house, tried to guess what your tiny voice would sound like when you learned to talk, and planned out so many fun things that we would do together one day when you were big. 

And now, quite suddenly, here we are. 

You are two years old, you run and spin and hop your merry way through each day, chattering almost non-stop...... and I really, really would like to slow the clock down. 

You are growing up faster than I ever imagined, despite the fact that every parent says the same thing so often it's become cliché.

I watched you take the hands of your dolly the other night, turning circles on the carpet singing in your still-baby voice until you "all fall down!", and it soothes my heart to see you learning to imagine and play so absolutely care-free and happy, and to know that you are completely clueless of the wickedness and sorrow that exists in the great, big world outside. 

I love that your biggest concerns in life right now are that you get that promised muffin when your dinner is all gone, or that one of your little sisters doesn't take your sippy cup away;

I wish it could always be this way.

I wish you didn't ever have to know what kind of world you live in. 

I wish you never even had to know.

I've seen the headlines. 

They keep coming, more and more frequently as this world deteriorates, and each time they flash before me I'm jolted out of my quiet oblivion into a reality that just seems so unreal. 

Interrupted, as it were, from my quiet state of just being your mommy: of going about my busy day thinking about what to make for lunch, whether it is your nap time yet, how to better organize those toys, how to calm the baby sister who's been fussy all morning, and all the similar thoughts that a mom of three toddlers thinks in a day...

And each time that unwelcome interruption comes I'm bombarded by thoughts about things I didn't even want to know existed.

And I am grieved.

And I am angry.

And I want to apologize. 

I want to apologize to YOU.

That you were born into this world in such a day and age where what is absolutely wrong is now celebrated as right; even good, brave, noble, and praiseworthy. In a world where what is right is not only scoffed at, challenged, unpopular and abnormal; it is actually considered wrong nowadays by many people, in many places, in many different ways.

And I want to apologize that you will, over the course of your life, undoubtedly see things that no one should ever have to see; That you will hear about things that no person, but most especially sweet, innocent ears, should ever have to hear about; That you will be faced with decisions and choices you must make that, really, in a perfect world, would be unquestionably OUT of the question...

But this is NOT a perfect world.

And that's what the headlines keep reminding me. 

And I want to apologize, but I know better.

My dear, darling twins, you have just barely crossed the threshold from babyhood into toddlerhood. Every single thing is new to you, and oh, how I enjoy watching you learn and explore and discover the world around you each day. You are helping me learn to slow down and see plain old, ordinary things from a new, beautiful perspective. At the same time, you are also helping me learn to pick up the pace and stay one step ahead of you constantly because everything is now accessible and beckoning to you, including Tupperware drawers and power cords. And there are two of you. That keeps life exciting. 
You are beautiful, and I adore you both.

My loves, just as much as I want to protect you from the electricity in power outlets, hot water pouring from the faucets, sharp objects and choking hazards, I also desperately want to protect your innocent impressionable hearts from the filth and the dangers that are in the world. I now understand why some parents shelter their children, hide them away, keep them to themselves. I get it now. 

Really, who wants to see their precious child fall into the wrong crowd and have their name end up plastered across some unthinkable headline one day for all the world to see? What could break a mother's heart more than to see her child lose their way?

Headline after headline has touted its message across my phone screen, on billboards, random television sets we pass in the stores; like waves breaking one after another hard upon a peaceful shore;

And each time this happens I want to apologize again.

So this letter to you, my three loves? This letter began to form and take shape in my mind over a year ago. News poured in of a man who made a huge, life-altering decision, and attracted the attention of the world. Something inside of me began to move and shake and I wondered how it came to be that I was actually living in a world where things so despicable and once unthinkable came to be described by throngs with words like "beautiful", "brave", "honest" and  "heroic". There are beautiful, brave, honest, and heroic things in this life, my girls, oh my goodness, yes! And I as your mother am overjoyed with the privilege I've been given to watch you grow and discover- and even to teach you about and introduce you to- some of those things, people, places in this world which are truly beautiful, brave, honest and heroic. 

But, my daughters, standing up against God and choosing our ways over His, is never in any way, beautiful, brave, honest, or heroic. I need you to know and believe this in your heart of hearts.

This passion to write this letter to you has grown with each and every buffeting news break.

Rainbow flags flying proudly, mass shootings, influential men- claiming the name of Christ- but treading their own sacred marriage vows into the dust, attacks on our law enforcement, more shootings, refugees, wars, attacks... attacks... attacks.......... 
These words I want to say to you have rattled around in my mind and taken shape until I cannot hold them in any longer. I need you to listen and understand.

I'm going to be downright honest. I want to be afraid. Sometimes I just want to keep us safely locked up inside our home, away from the reach of senseless destruction. I want to say "No more library trips... just to be safe." 

I want to get down on my knees and apologize to your innocent faces that this is the world you must know, the time in history you must exist in, the reality you must face as you grow.

I want to be angry, ravenously angry. To throw open my door and just yell "STOP IT!" to the whole blundering, hurting, messed up world. Just stop it and let my children grow up in peace and safety.

I want to apologize, but I cannot.

Because to apologize to you for the world you live in, is to claim control over something that is entirely out of my control. To apologize to you would essentially be saying that your Creator made a mistake in choosing exactly what day you would be born on, in placing you exactly where you are in history, and in making you exactly who you are in shape and personality and in the depths of your soul. And He does not make mistakes. 
I need you to know and believe this in your heart of hearts.

To apologize to you is to insinuate that the God of Creation is not in absolute control over every part of His creation. But He is in absolute control, regardless of the senseless choices some people make, and I need you to know and believe this in your heart of hearts, my daughters. And I need to choose to believe this in my heart of hearts. 

So instead of apologizing to you, I want to tell you of another young lady who lived in a perilous time in history.

Esther was just a young woman, but she had quite suddenly and unexpectedly become queen of a vast kingdom. She knew and loved the same true God that we know and love, but not all who lived in the kingdom did. Shortly after she became queen, a time came when each and every child of God in the kingdom was to be put to death, by royal decree. Can you imagine? An attack on every single person who chose to claim the name of our Lord. It is said that there was great mourning in every part of the kingdom; weeping, fasting, and wailing. I cannot even imagine the aches in their hearts and minds. 

Esther wanted to be afraid. I'm sure she even wanted to be angry.

But the words that have survived centuries echo loud in my mind as I sit here now and write to you, my daughters. 
Rather than speaking fear; 
Rather than whisking her back to the home where he raised her all those years- attempting to hide her away from harm's reach; 

Rather than apologizing to her for the position she found herself in, 
Esther's uncle Mordecai, who raised her to know and believe in the love and sovereignty of God, calmly and clearly told her that she must not remain silent. She must step out and make a stand for her people and for her God. 
And there it is, sounding like a speculation but reflecting a firm faith in the God who makes no mistakes, he said to her:

"Who knows whether you have not attained royalty for such a time as this?" Esther 4:13

For such a time as this.

A time when the queen herself, along with all her own people, were ill-treated and were soon, on a specific date, to be put to death by the sword. 

A time of uncertainty and impending doom.

A time of mourning throughout the entire land.

For this exact time in history, God had chosen her.

He used that one young, inexperienced woman to effect the destinies of an entire nation.

He used that one girl's life in ways no one would have imagined on the day of her birth; Throughout her toddlerhood; 
When she held her dolly's hands, singing, and turned circles on the floor.

The God who makes no mistakes used the danger at hand 

to call forth the bravery of one man, 

who summoned the faith of one woman 

who took a stand for truth and justice before the whole blundering, hurting, messed up world, and changed the course of history forever after.

And He can do the same today.

With you.

This is why I cannot apologize to you for the world you must know, the time in history you must exist in, the reality you must face as you grow.

While I do not condone it, and I will not ignore it, in the face of all the wickedness and sorrow and uncertainty of this world, I will choose to believe in my heart of hearts that the God who is in absolute control of every part of His creation, and who makes no mistakes, called each of you darling, precious daughters of mine into being on the day in which He did, making you exactly who you are, at this exact moment in history, for such a time as this.

You are right here, right now for a perfect, undeniable reason.

And I, as your mother, am overjoyed with the privilege I've been given to prepare you to walk out the calling God has placed on your life. 

I will choose, rather than speaking fear; rather than keeping us safely locked up inside our home, away from the reach of senseless destruction; rather than apologizing to you for the position you find yourself holding in this generation; 

to raise you all to know and believe in the love and sovereignty of God, 

to calmly and clearly teach you that you must not remain silent in the face of untruth. 

to speak hope to you,

to speak truth to you,

to live faith, undeniably, before you,

to uphold you through prayer,

to point you to Jesus, who is the answer to every problem in this whole blundering, hurting, messed up world,

And I will make sure you know that you are not here by accident, or here to stand by and watch history take its course; You, each one of you, my beautiful girls, are here today, even today; while French families grieve, and politicians make and argue laws, while headlines brandish preposterous titles, while hurt people hurt people, and while you wake up from your naps and finish the remainder of those lollipops I saved on the counter for you; 

You are here for such a time as this.

Do not fear. Do not shrink back.

I need you to know and believe this in your heart of hearts.

Wanted

The room was silent except for the whir of the machine beside me.

I shifted my gaze from his face; pursed lips and eyes that stayed fixated on the screen... to my husband's furrowed brow... to the ceiling and the exam light above me that burned my eyes.

I was just over seven weeks pregnant.

The doctor slid the probe gently across my belly. Too gently. I wished he would press harder, dig deep for answers.

Please just give me an answer.

Any answer.

Please say, "Ahh, there. I found a heartbeat."

Or even "I'm sorry, I found the baby; there is no heartbeat."

But please give me an answer.

Uncomfortable as the place and the situation was, I was glad to be there.

Even the cold gel against my bare skin on a chilly February evening felt comforting somehow.

At least now we will know something. At least now I can get an answer as to what is going on.

Please search hard, doctor, sir. Please do everything you can to figure out what's happening. Why is my body emptying out when it should be growing a life?

My mind knew what was happening, but my heart wanted to keep hoping.

Because that’s what love does, it always hopes.

Please say something.

Don't come up empty...

But he did.

He blamed the machine, it was just an outdated, portable ultrasound machine. I was also just so early on in the pregnancy, he wasn't able to see anything more than the enlarged uterus.

He was gentle and kind, the type of doctor we had prayed we would encounter that afternoon. He explained things and answered questions, but he couldn't give a diagnosis, he was just there to operate the machine.

I held Joel’s hand as I lay on the bed, and we waited.

More nurses, another doctor. Blood work, explanations, pressing around on my belly, internal exam.

Please give me an answer to go on.

Somewhere down the hallway a baby cried. I thought about the baby we were so excited to meet in September. I thought about my three girls back at the condo with their grandparents. We weren't even in our hometown, we were on vacation. Not only that, it was Family Day.

No one plans or expects to lose a family member on Family Day.

Were we really losing the baby today?

Somewhere in the blur of words and procedures I heard the doctor speak the phrase, "...if this was a wanted pregnancy..." And I don't remember a single word after that.

If it was a wanted pregnancy?

Oh, sir. If you only knew just how wanted.

Stop.

Baby, I want you to know right here and right now: you are wanted. You are loved.

So wanted.

So loved.

They sent us back to our condo, encouraged us to pack up and drive the two and a half hours home that night, in case things were to get worse. They couldn't say for sure it was a miscarriage, although they said it seemed likely. They couldn't say for sure that it wasn't an ectopic pregnancy, although they seemed to have ruled it out. They couldn't do any more for us in this town than they'd already done so they recommended we go back to the bigger city where we could get more help, should I need it. So we did; we packed up and went home that night.

I tried to process what was happening.

Was I really losing the baby?

Was this a miscarriage?

Miscarriage.

Stupid word.

How could it be that one. word. could so effortlessly describe everything that I'd just heard, experienced, seen that day? How was it that that one simple word could waltz right into my life, unannounced, becoming an easy label for people to use to describe all of the pain in my heart and the dashing of hopes and dreams and plans?

I'd seen blood on the bathroom floor.

I'd watched my body empty out and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. The feelings were similar to the night that earthquake shook our house; I was helpless and powerless against a force greater than my own will and intentions. I just watched this thing happen to my body, I prayed and I tried to keep on hoping that what was happening was not what seemed to be happening.

And then everything was still. The pain stopped. I soon felt almost… normal. Too normal.
If that was a miscarriage, part of me wanted it to be worse. To give my mind time to wrap around it all. But it happened so fast it didn’t even have time to sink in before it was done.

Worse, because you were more than just a word, more than a medical term like, “miscarriage”. You were a life, and if you were being lost I wanted to feel that loss in every way.

Part of me kept hoping for the best. The rest of me just waited in the silence of the next few days.

But those days went by and it became clear. My hCG levels, those numbers that showed how much of the pregnancy hormone existed in my body, were tested again 48 hours after they had been taken at that little Emergency Clinic on Family Day, and the results came back showing a dramatically lower number. My midwife called me personally to give me the news, along with her condolences. Joel held my hand as he sat beside me, he could hear enough on the other side of the phone to know what she was saying.

That emptying out that I’d borne witness to? That was my body saying goodbye and letting go.

It happened so fast, I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye and let go.

It was over. Just like that.

That was not the answer I wanted, but it was an answer. At least now I had an answer.

I could stop hoping now.

But wait.

No.

I will not lose hope. I will not let go of hope.

I am disappointed. I am sad, and I grieve the loss of my child.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I had rubbed my already-growing belly and smiled?

I loved carrying you around inside.

You were wanted. So wanted. So loved.

I would like to name you Ava. I always liked that name. Your daddy and I thought maybe you were a boy, because you already have three sisters, but we never got to find out. Your tiny body had not yet formed into what you would’ve been here on earth. But now I would like to name you Ava, because Ava means desired. I don’t want anyone to ever think you were not wanted, and I want everyone to know what a blessing your short life was to your mama. I wanted you so very much. You should have seen the way I smiled and laughed and ran to show Daddy when I saw the lines form on that pregnancy test. September seemed like the absolute most perfect month to welcome you into our arms; into our home; into our family. You were due on the second day of Fall, my favorite season.

But Jesus wanted you more. You belong there, with Him. Dancing on those golden streets, endlessly praising Him and never shedding a single tear. I know you love to dance, because I know your sisters and I know your Daddy, and they are forever dancing to one song or another in the Family Room after dinner is done and while I clean up the kitchen. I know you are beautiful. Heavenly. I cannot wait to meet you one day.

Ava also means alive. I know, my child, that you are not gone. You are more alive than ever now.

Seven weeks is young, very young, but not worthless. You were so alive, even then. The knowledge of your presence inside me filled us with such joy, and the dreaming of all you could become gave us so much to look forward to. We loved you then, when you grew inside me... and we love you now; now that you are made whole and alive with Jesus. We know we will see you some day.

Ava also means voice, song, sound. Your life is a song to me. A song of a living hope. Through the growing and the losing of you I am reminded of the hope that I have that remains unshakeable throughout any and every storm that comes my way. Your life and your passing is drawing me closer to the One who created your soul and mine. My perspective of Heaven has changed too, becoming a little brighter, dearer, and a little more real. I know I am held by Jesus as I grieve your loss, and I know you are held by Him and finally whole. He is our living hope, the One who conquered death and therefore fills us with joy even in the face of it. Jesus is the One who heals, gives grace to walk through our trials, and fills us with HOPE in situations that seem, to the soul that doesn’t know Him, hopeless.

Could it be that your sweet song, my dear, will also draw others to the hope we have? It may be that there are those reading this story of ours who have lost much, but do not have this hope in Jesus. What a joy it would be if by writing out my heart here, my baby and I could together be a voice; pointing other broken ones to the Saviour who gives indescribable peace, hope, and healing to all who ask.

So I will not lose hope.

I got my answer, and it was not the answer I wanted.

I want to be pregnant right now. I want to believe the notification that popped up on my phone screen this morning, because I forgot to turn off the app after you passed; I want to believe you are nine weeks today and the size of a grape… eyes and nose and earlobes and gums, even tiny teeth inside those gums, all forming at rapid pace. I wanted to go to that first midwife appointment this coming Monday, maybe hear your heartbeat and grin from ear-to-ear. I wanted to see you on that ultrasounds screen next week, and I wanted finally announce to the world that you were on the way; I couldn't wait to finally post those pictures I took of your sisters on my bed one afternoon, holding the shoes that were meant for you to wear one day. 

I wanted to go buy little matching Big Sister shirts for your twin sissies. I wanted to video your 2-year-old sister talking about the baby in mommy’s tummy, and how she would wrap it and hold it and take care of it when it came out. I didn’t want to have to explain to her in a very simple, toddler-appropriate way that the baby isn’t there anymore. I wanted to keep researching quadruple strollers online, and toddler car seats that would be narrow enough to fit 3 along the back bench of our minivan for your sisters leaving room for your infant seat up front. I wanted to labour and birth you into this world and feel your skin against my own and let the whole world stand still as I soaked in all the glory of a fresh, new, beautiful newborn life that I got the priviledge to cherish and love and raise up for the Lord. I wanted to know you. 
Baby, I wanted you.

But Jesus wanted you more.

And Jesus fills me with hope that even this answer, although fiercely unwanted, is okay. He chose this answer for me, He chose this answer for you, and He never, ever chooses wrong.

This is me saying goodbye and letting go.

I’m giving you back to Jesus, Baby. You, and all the dreams I had for us. I’m giving them to Him. You, my precious Ava Hope, have strengthened my heart in ways that only a blending of grief and hope and love and Jesus can do. You are valuable, and there will never be another you.

There are those who do not realize what a gift life is. There are those who think seven weeks is too young, who think a seven-week-old life is not valuable. They are wrong, my dear, as we know. Every life is valuable.
You will forever be valuable and treasured in my heart.

Live on, sweet baby.

Maybe This is Why

 {A story from my recent mission trip to Africa... and a testament to the truth that it is sometimes the little things- or the little people!- that make the biggest and longest-lasting impacts on our lives...}

It was June eleventh and I was halfway through my first afternoon at Sanyu Babies’ Home in Kampala, Uganda when I met her.

I saw her sitting alone and motionless on a bench across the hut from me and I knew immediately that something wasn’t right. I put down a baby I had been entertaining and made my way through the little crowd of playing babies to where she sat. She was sitting in an awkward position; as if someone had just sat her down and walked off- and she had just stayed frozen in that posture.

She was staring off into nowhere, a piece of cake clenched tightly in her hand. She made no move when I touched her or spoke to her softly. I picked her up and held her in my arms, but she seemed to just move to whatever I did to her, like she had no energy of her own.

I held her tight and talked to her... I prayed for her and even sang a little bit, but her facial expression never changed and she rarely made eye-contact.

Her arms and legs were tiny and cold. Her eyes were beautifully big and brown, but when I looked into them, at one point, they glazed over and my heart skipped a beat. I was suddenly afraid because I knew that something was very wrong with this child. I moved over to another bench with her, and sat down beside one of the mamas of the Home.

I asked her what the little girl’s name was:  she told me it was Beatrice.  

She said that Beatrice had just come to the Babies’ Home from a nearby hospital that very day and no one knew much about her at all.  She had been brought in by the police, the nurse later told me.

The nurse and I both concluded that she was extremely malnourished, and therefore it was hard to determine her age... but because she had a mouthful of teeth we guessed that she was about a year to18 months old. I held her tightly a little later on as Nurse Sylvia attempted to feed her a dose of medicine, but suddenly, from who knows where, the previously-lethargic little girl found an impressive amount of energy. She clenched her teeth and downright refused to swallow the nasty medicine that the Nurse stubbornly poured into her mouth. She squealed pitifully (the first sound I had heard her make all afternoon) as the brown liquid leaked over her chin and dribbled down her neck, through her hair and onto my arm. After a couple terrorizing and unsuccessful attempts to get Beatrice to take the medicine, Nurse Sylvia handed me the measuring cup and had me try..... but I didn’t get much better of results. Giving up, Nurse Sylvia said that she had no options left than to put in a port and give her the medicine intravenously next time.

Finding a roll of toilet paper, I cleaned up the sad little girl as best I could and then- realizing that I was already supposed to have left for Mengo for the evening-  I laid her down in a nearby crib regretfully.

I hated to leave her- especially just then- but I knew I had no other choice. The nurse had already left the room, moving on to other children who needed her assistance, and Beatrice lay motionless on her back in the crib, staring blankly again. I whispered her name until she turned her gaze to catch mine and I smiled at her several times, telling her that I loved her.

Then, hoping and praying hard that she’d have strength to make it through the night,
I left her.

The next afternoon I made my way down the hill from Namirembe Guesthouse to Sanyu as soon as I could.  We were first set to work gathering laundry off the line because the babies were still napping, but it wasn’t long before all 40-something babies were awake and as loud and lively as ever. While the others from my team scooped up little ones and began to play, I passed by everyone in search of Beatrice.
I had received word from another girl from another volunteer team who’d been there that morning that Beatrice had made it through the night just fine, and was seemingly doing a little better according to several who had seen her the day before- including Nurse Sylvia.

I soon found her and held her for nearly all of the three hours I was there. She was still weak and lethargic, but showed a tad bit more energy by grimacing a few times and actually even pushing me away when it bothered her that I was singing or gently rubbing on her arms and legs.

Underneath all that weakness, I was beginning to tell that Beatrice had quite the little attitude!

I helped with the torturous medicine-forcing again that evening and held her still during the intravenous injection, but my heart was sad and I hoped she didn’t develop a fear of me and begin to associate me with torture. Again, she fought as hard as she could, her squealing a bit stronger and more like a scream than the day before.

Sometimes you have to do things that aren’t fun, and I wished she could understand that I wasn’t enjoying making her suffer, but that I was trying to help her ultimately OUT of her suffering.

Nurse Sylvia said that she needed to be able to gain more strength and weight before they would be able to test her for Tuberculosis and HIV, so until then we couldn’t really be sure of what it was she was facing besides malnutrition.

 
When the time came again for me to leave I didn’t want to just set her down and walk off, so I found an older mama named Beatrice (after whom the little one was named) and asked if I could leave the baby with her.  Agreeing, the mama took Beatrice onto her lap, but the little girl immediately turned and held her arms out to me, whining in her tiny little voice.  This was the first time I had seen her show emotion besides fighting her medicine, and I was sad but extremely happy at the same time. Not only was she already gaining a little strength and beginning to communicate more clearly, she actually wanted me.... she recognized me as someone she felt safe with... and that was immediately one of the biggest highlights of my day.


I was there to make a difference... and somehow... I could see that a tiny difference was already being made. I couldn't help but thank the Lord!

Thursday, June 14th was my last day in Kampala and I was able to get over to the Babies’ Home first thing that morning. I found Beatrice still asleep in her crib and gently woke her up. I was determined to keep her with me as much as possible this day, since it would be our last day together for a while. I had no idea when or if I’d be able to come back to Africa again after this.
I bathed her, dressed her in the cutest little dress I could find in the stack of clothes, and noted that 12 months size didn’t fit this tiny little girl: she wore a 3-6 months sized outfit.

This day, Nurse Sylvia handed me the medicine and asked if I’d do the honors. I was thankful to have the opportunity to try it gently, without the struggle she was used to. She still whined and fought it some, but it went much more smoothly this time. I cleaned the medicine off her clothes and washed her hair again. As Beatrice sat on my lap outside, the nurse gave her a haircut, saying she was beginning to look “shabby”.

I snatched a tiny pinch of her black curls and stuck them in my pocket. (Shh!)

A little while later one of the teachers gave me a packet of something called Plumpy Nut and said that I was to feed it to Beatrice. My friend Emma, a girl who was very familiar with the Home and had also dealt much with malnourished children, assured me that this would be really good for Beatrice (if she’d eat it) and would help her gain weight quickly. At first Beatrice stubbornly clamped her mouth shut, thinking it was just another kind of nasty medicine, but after watching me taste it in front of her and slip some through her lips, she decided it wasn’t so bad after all. I rejoiced inwardly as I watched her willingly open her mouth for more.

The physical therapist who was there for the day asked if I would help with Beatrice's therapy and I felt as privileged as if I'd just been handed the world. I watched almost breathlessly as my baby girl shyly crawled to the therapist when beckoned, and then -upon command- stood herself up and walked across the mat. She was progressing so fast! I helped gently exercise and stretch her muscles and then massaged her body, silently praying for her and her little life as my hands gently moved across her chocolate-colored skin. I kept watching the clock, knowing my time at Sanyu was coming to a close. I had been told to be back at the chapel at Mengo Hospital (where most of my team was spending their time that week) for a service by 10:30, and it was already almost 10. I found Vicky, one of the directors of the Home, in the hallway and asked special permission to take pictures of Beatrice. She said that I could, so my sister Emily and I spent the next few minutes snapping away pictures together with this precious little girl who had become so very dear to our hearts in the last few days.

Finally, I leaned over and whispered to her, simply,  “Beatrice, honey, I’m going to have to leave soon.”
She whined, reached up and grabbed part of my shirt in her little fist and held on.

I couldn’t believe she had actually understood what I’d just said to her!

I could only imagine what kind of a life she had led up until that day, but the fact that I was now leaving her too was ripping my heart up.

holding my shirt tightly

Soon, I could hold it off no longer. I took her inside where some of the babies were having a snack. I found my friend, Laura, and told her I had to leave now; asking if she’d make sure Beatrice was well taken care of until she also had to leave later on. She understood that this wasn’t an easy moment for either one of us, and kindly offered to feed her a bottle while I left. I held Beatrice close, whispered many things to her, kissed her, hugged her, and finally said goodbye. I slipped her into her highchair despite her little whining and watched for just a second, then turned away.

That was the last time I saw her.
Never once did I see her smile.  

Many times since I left her I prayed for her, worried about her, and wrote to the director of the Home asking about her condition. Friends of mine from all over the world were praying for her, this little girl of mine, because she had captured a special place in all their hearts.
In my heart I had begun praying and scheming up plans of bringing her home.

Tonight I would be asking you to pray with me for this sweet little girl, but almost two weeks after returning to the States I was informed that Beatrice went to be with Jesus.

I don’t really know how, I don’t know why;

all I know is that she had been taken into the hospital the week before because of some symptoms which included vomiting. I had been praying for her to be healed, but Jesus had other plans for her life.




I found out after she had died that soon after I had left, another woman had taken notice of her. Jenny is an American mama of 15 children who, with her husband, was in the process of adopting a little girl from Sanyu Babies’ Home at that very time. She has been staying at the Home temporarily until the adoption was complete, and when she discovered little Beatrice and noticed her condition, she immediately began taking measures to fight for her life. She notified people around the world of Beatrice and her needs, and soon The Baby Beatrice Fund was begun and many contributed towards her care. All this, and I didn't even know!
If I’m not mistaken, it was Jenny herself that made sure my sweet girl was taken into the hospital when her condition became worse, and Jenny was the one who thought to go out and buy a beautiful, frilly dress and flower headband to dress Beatrice in for her burial a week later.

How many time can I look in your eyes and say I have nothing to give?

At her death Beatrice was two-and-a-half years old, ten pounds, and HIV positive. She was buried in a graveyard that was surrounded by a trash dump where local people of all ages dig around to find food.

I don’t know why the Lord brought Beatrice into my life, but I do know that I have been changed by the impact of the story of her life and death. At times since her passing, I have wondered and asked the Lord what the point was of those three or four short days at Sanyu with Beatrice, and why in the world He put her in my life and then took her away?

And then- slowly, quietly- it occurred to me that maybe...

MAYbe... 

it isn’t about me at all. 

Maybe all of that was so that she could be loved in a way she hadn’t before, so that she could be cared for... even just for a few hours... by this insignificant, self-consumed girl from across the world.

And maybe that’s why we go to Africa at all:

Maybe that’s what this Christian life is all about:

Giving away the love that we have received.  Even when we don’t understand the outcome.