Julie

For a long, hesitant moment, I stood outside the closed mothers’ room door in our little country church. My heart pounded as if I were about to enter a prison.

Would the reaction be positive, or would an anguished cry of “Get out!” crush what little courage I had left? Taking a deep breath, I flashed a prayer for help heavenward and stepped inside. Julie sat alone in the vacant room, staring through the sheer curtains and pretending to listen to the sermon. She made no move to acknowledge my entrance.

I sat down beside her. I had known Julie for a couple of years.

We led the children’s Sabbath School program each week, and our husbands enjoyed farm and ranch talk frequently. Our older sons scrapped over toys and were both thrilled to have three-month-old babies to compare. The comparison had, however, ended abruptly. Just a few weeks earlier, my pastor husband received a call informing us that Julie and Dan’s baby had died the night before from crib death. We were devastated! The events that followed were a blur. Visits, tears, heartaches, hugs, and a funeral.

Now here I was, sitting beside a stone-faced, heartbroken Julie in the mothers’ room. I put my hand on her arm and whispered, “Julie, I am so sorry.” She exploded, “It’s not fair! You still have your baby, and mine is gone!” Tears coursed down our cheeks.

I said, “I just want you to know I care.” We sat quietly, side by side; no words were necessary as grief gripped both our hearts.

There are times in life when nothing much can be done to help those who are hurting—except to show how much we care. It is not always easy to do so, but how important it is! And that is what I tried to convey to Julie. The empty, aching place in her arms and in our little church hurt everyone. Only the hope of heaven gave us comfort.

“As the little infants come forth immortal from their dusty beds, they immediately wing their way to their mother’s arms.” May that day come soon, Lord!

Marybeth Gessele