four-year-olds and Jesus

dear rory,

she was whimpering. her face was scrunched up in an effort to keep the tears in her eyes.

"mommy..."

"come here," mom and I both said at once. being fourteen years older than my little sister, sometimes I forget I'm not her mom.

Megan forgets sometimes too, and so she threw her little self into my lap. which may have been a good thing, since mom was already crying.

with her head turned back, Megan watched the tv as she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"why are they doing that to Jesus?" she whispered sadly into my cheek.

"they want Him to die," I said. "they say He is a bad man."

"but He's not."

"you're right. He is perfect."

we both watched. the movie showed Jesus standing before jeering crowds. crowds that, only a week before, had been singing Hosannas to His name.

Jesus stayed silent to their insults.

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet He did not open His mouth; He was led like a lamb to the slaughter... (Isaiah 53:7)

they struck Him. and though it was simply a cartoon, I felt my eyes burning, and I squeezed my sister tighter. we were both watching our God die.

our God who had, as Joni Earickson Tada once described it, "poured Himself into baby flesh."
for a minute, I wanted to tell my sister that it would "be okay". that Jesus wouldn't die. but then I remembered... that's why He came as a baby in the first place.

***
"How can you become a Christian?" the Sunday-school teacher asked.

Hands shot up.

"Yes, Renee?"

"You have to ask Jesus into your heart," my seven-year-old self replied.

"And what did Jesus do to save you?"

"He died on the cross for my sins."

Easy.***

"Nay, what are they doing to Jesus now?"

"They're nailing Him to the cross."

She buried her closed eyes under my chin, as the video tactfully, but emotionally, showed the Roman soldier bend over our Savior. What it didn't show, I knew. The Roman soldier hammered metal through His outspread palm and punctured skin and bone.

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him... (Isaiah 53:5)

I looked over towards mom. She watched as her four-year-old struggled with Jesus' death. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Dad turned the volume down, but said quietly, "This is good. She understands."

"Is that His mother?" Megan whispered when she looked up.

"Yes, that's Mary." Mary, who was also a mother crying for her child. Mary who had carried the Son of God in her womb.

***

"Mary, did you know? That your baby boy, will one day heal the nations?"

the words were being sung to me by my cousin Elizabeth, who had been barren her whole life, but was now with child herself.

my own child felt like it could fall out at any moment.

I stood on the stage in front of a couple hundred people and tried to nonchalantly adjust my child. just for the record: rolled up blankets are not good children.

how I was chosen to be Mary for our old church's Christmas play, I still do not know. I can't sing, and I can't act. but I loved the nativity story. and I suppose my enthusiasm carried me through to the top spot.

I felt a little funny. not terribly nervous. just funny. I was at my most awkward stage of life, Joseph was like a foot shorter than me (I had to kneel down for the scene he placed his hand on my shoulder), and my solo went a little higher than my vocal chords could manage. but there I was, dressed in rag-like clothes, pretending to carry the King of the world inside my dress.

"When you kiss your little baby, you kiss the face of God..."

the stage lights were making me sweat, but at that moment, I shivered and imagined I really was Mary, about to give birth to the one who would redeem the nations. it was a scary feeling.

what would it be like to raise God in the flesh? for wholly God He would be. but also wholly man. "my" child would suffer hunger, pain, and temptation like all the rest of us. He would get thirsty. He would get sick, have headaches, wake up only to find He was still exhausted. He would face annoying people. He would have brothers and sisters to pester Him. He would have chores. He would see death and pay taxes and work hard. People would let Him down, lie to Him, cheat Him, spit on Him, hate Him, beat Him, and mock Him.

and yet He wouldn't sin and blame it on His circumstances. He would remain perfect.

I forgot about the audience and the fact that Joseph was a midget compared to me.

I was Mary. God was about to make His appearance on earth.

"This child that you deliver, will soon deliver you... oh Mary, did you know?"

***

it was useless holding my breath. seeing Mary weep as she watched her son, perfect man and perfect God, hang on the cross was heart-breaking.

Megan and I clung to each other, and I let quiet tears slide down my face. I felt like I was watching the story as a four-year-old again. Jesus is good... why are they doing this to Him?

I looked back at the seven-year-old me who had thought that salvation was so easy. In a way, salvation is easy... for us. but for God, it meant sacrifice and blood and tears and sweat and heartbreak.

my pre-teen self up on stage had grasped that concept for a moment. and now I was grasping it again. not for the first time. not for the last.

we kept watching Jesus' final hours on earth. we cried until His last breath.

and then, there was silence for three days. a dead man lay in his tomb. the world waited.

the Son of God came back to life. the grave could not stop Him.

and He is the mediator between God and man to this day. He knows what it is to be God. and He knows what it is to be man.

***

After He has suffered,
He will see the light of life
and be satisfied;
by His knowledge my
righteous servant will
justify many,
and He will bear their
iniquities...
because He poured out His
life unto death,
and was numbered with the
transgressors.
For He bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for
the transgressors.
(Isaiah 53:12)

***

thank you, Lord Jesus. for making salvation so easy that a four-year-old can understand. for making salvation so complex and beautiful that we'll never really understand all that you sacrificed by "pouring yourself into baby flesh."

love,
muffin

december pages

dear muffin,

hi. remember me?

I feel like a wombat that just crawled out of its cave after a long hibernation, blinking in the crystalline sun & suddenly remembering what wind tastes like. [whether or not wombats actually hibernate is entirely irrelevant.]

the fact of the matter is, nursing school is over. the chapter is closed, every word read. I am now one of those post-grad creatures wandering between the world of textbooks and an ever-growing pile of job applications. I said goodbye to Harper for the last time today & felt just a bit sad. a chapter of my life was lived in those hallways, and I'm always sad when a page turns. no going back.

mostly, though, I miss the ER. I miss Doug & Kate & Chris & Diego & Rachel & Justyna & Kurt & Lori & Ryan & Amber & Dr. Sevier & Adam & the other Adam. I miss the jokes and teasing. I miss the crazy patients, nice patients, frightened patients, grumpy patients. I miss the warm rush of satisfaction when an IV slides into place. I miss feeling like a grown up as we all hang out in the break room, eating our lunches and talking. I’ve grown over the past 8 weeks, and I know I’ll remember these days as some of the best in my life.

* * * *

the ambulance theme song catches my attention from across the nurse’s station. I close my charting and jog over just as Kate, my preceptor, picks up the receiver. “This is Northwest Base, go ahead.”

“Northwest, this is Palatine 25. how do you copy?”

“loud and clear, Palatine. go ahead.”

“alright, we have a 73-year-old man found non-responsive at home after a suspected heart attack. he was PEA on the monitor when we got to him, but since then we’ve been able to feel a carotid a few times. pulse is gone now. we started compressions, put in a King airway, & got a line in him. bringing him in now, ETA 6 minutes…”

someone scrambles to call a Cardiac Alert for room Bravo-2. we pour into the room with a crash cart, clearing the floor, piling equipment and priming bags of fluid. we are ready when the paramedics burst in with the wheeled stretcher, delivering chest compressions as they approach.

a paramedic gives report amidst the flurried activity. “we’ve given him 5 doses of epinephrine but haven’t gotten a pulse back. he’s gone into v-fib a few times, but mostly he’s flat-lining.”

I catch sight of a tech about to draw blood; in a burst of courage I flag him down.

“hey, I’ll start an IV and get blood from that instead.” he nods and pushes the tubes and tourniquet in my direction. I jump in without thinking twice.

the patient’s arm feels like cold wax beneath my fingers; dead weight. there is no twitch when I slide the needle into his vein, no exclamation of pain. his arm jerks rhythmically as someone delivers chest compressions. I calm my breathing and search for the blood flash. bang; got it. the IV is in. I hang a bag of fluid wide open and step back.

“I need a med nurse!” someone calls. I don’t even hesitate.

“got it! what do you want?”

the doctor considers. “epi. let’s try it again.”

I have never set up an epinephrine cartridge before. once, after a simulation, my instructor passed a cartridge around and explained how it works. “you pull off the yellow tab, twist the two parts together, and you’re set.” now, staring at the pieces as I dump them out of the box, it seems more complicated. I jam the cartridge into the injector and double-check with the tech.

“did I do that right?”

he nods. “you’re good to go.”

“Kate!” I call as I scrub an IV port. “first dose of epi is going in... now.” she nods and records the time.

thump, thump, thump. the room is still except for the tech delivering chest compressions. it feels like we’re holding our breath as we wait for the epi to take effect.

flat line.

10 minutes of compressions and 2 doses of epi later, the doctor uses an ultrasound to check for heart activity.

“I got nothing. anyone object if I declare it?”

no one speaks. we know there’s nothing else to be done; 7 doses of epi would jump-start a stone.

“alright,” says the doctor. “I’m calling it at 4:33. you can stop compressions.” the tech steps down from his stool and drags a shaking arm across his forehead. compressions are a workout by anyone’s standard.

“I’ll send the family to the viewing room. go ahead and get the body ready.”

suddenly, the room is quiet. it’s just me, Kate, and a tech. Kate is filling out her time-keeping page, so I turn towards the bed.

the white body lies bare, glaringly pale in the fluorescent light. his chest is extended as though with a deep breath; the ventilator left air in his lungs. I stare for a moment, half-expecting an exhale to relieve the tension. but he lies rigid.

“hey, would you mind…?” the tech points towards the man’s eyes, and I realize I’m the only person still wearing gloves. I step over and gently press the man’s eyes closed, but not before I see the vast emptiness staring up at the ceiling.

“the family is here; I’ll take him over,” announces someone in the doorway. with that, we are alone in the room, left to clean up papers, plastic packaging, and EKG stickers off the floor. to prepare the room for the next patient.

life is a thread. this christmas, look around you at the people you hold dearest. notice each one. because pages turn, & you will never return to this one.

I hope today’s page was beautiful for you. tomorrow, we will share a page. & I am thankful for that.

love always,

rory