At first I was afraid to love them. Ashamed I even dreaded going into that room where their little bodies lay under plastic, hooked up to monitors, their lungs moving as machines ensured their lungs would breathe and liquid running into their veins made sure they kept on living. Every time a doctor walked up to us I felt like I was dying, just a little. Every time the phone rang my heart would drop. My world was torn and I was trapped in a nightmare. If they survived, the doctors said, they would stay in the hospital for months.
I stood on the brink, ready to jump into one of two deep pools. Because I could no longer stay where I was and remain sane I could feel my heart falling either into a deep resentment for what God had allowed or a faith that would challenge me to see each moment as a gift.
I stood on that brink far too long, building up walls, trying not to have to take responsibility for anything.
But then I jumped.
I fell deep deep into a love that will never break.
God gave me this. He gave me the courage to take a chance on a broken heart. He gave me the strength to step forward when fear was holding me in place. He showed me how to laugh during times of grief and smile even when disaster seems eminent.