Held

It's late in the day and the autumn sky is darkening grey and cold.
The baby and I have been at the hospital for six hours.
So many tests have already been done combined with the endless waiting between procedures.
By now, the baby is exhausted, miserable and wanting to be left alone, he buries his face in my neck.
Although the ultrasound is the final test, I know he will not be interested in laying down on a table to be prodded and poked by strangers in lab coats yet again.
But this one test is necessary and unavoidable.
The moment the baby sees the examination table he screams and clings fiercely to me.
So, I do what seems best.
I climb on the table first, gently lay him on top of me, tummy up, wrap my arms around him and give him his bottle to drink.

I softly hum a song and the quietness of the room and whirring of the machines aid in his falling asleep within moments.
His breathing slows and evens.
I force myself to relax.
But, I feel an aching inner panic.
A surreal sense of brewing ill-winds... but like a bird in her nest as a storm approaches, I can do nothing more than turn inward and try my best to protect this small one in my embrace.

* * * *
The day we found out that the lump in our 15 month old foster baby's belly was serious will forever be stamped in permanent ink on the pages of my mind's memory book.

Blood in his urine one morning led to a trip to the medical clinic but nothing was found.
The next day as my son was playing with him, he discovered a large lump on the baby's lower abdomen.
We decided to keep an eye on it and see if the oddly distended belly was just naturally going to pass or if there was more happening.

Sunday night, he seemed inconsolable after a visit to his family, so we took him in to emergency.
An appointment was made for the next day to see the pediatrician at the nearest large hospital.
Tests were ordered, and I found myself 6 hours later in the final test for the day... the ultrasound.

And here I was.
And here he was... trusting me.
Oblivious to the medical drama playing out on his account.
The examination seemed to take an extra amount of time.
The technician was quiet. And finally excused herself saying she needed to get the doctor to come look at the screen.

The hurricane intensified. The winds howled. I closed my eyes and held on.

It was then that the sweet voice of the Spirit spoke to my inner ear.

"Mary" He seemed to say,
"Just as you cannot go through this for the baby, you can go through this with him. And just as you are holding him now, so am I holding you both through this journey. I am near. I surround you."
And courage rose up in my heart.
It would be okay. We would not be delivered from the storm, but we could walk through it knowing we were not alone.
Delivered from fear.
Delivered from the uncertainty of the future.
For God was already There.

After the doctor took another round of pictures and examinations, he solemnly looked at me and bluntly dropped the bomb;
"There is a large growth on the baby's kidney that needs to come out as soon as possible."

The next day, we were driving to London Hospital for Sick Children and the battle with cancer began.
The storm increased. The winds began to rage.
But around me and the baby was a shield of faith, an angel of Light, the promise of the Shelter under His wings.
And in the wind, I could hear Him singing over me... songs of love and deliverance.

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