Magic Wands and Flying Unicorns

So, it’s been some time since I have flown, since I’ve been subjected to the rigors of the post 911 stringent security measures.  In fact, it was several years ago on a trip to NJ where I was fortunate enough to discover the dubious perks my new status as the bionic woman garnered me. 

It was on the return flight, just becoming better acquainted with my newly installed parts, that I realized the attention they would bring me.  Funny, that part of my anatomy never got me that much attention before.  This could be interesting, I remember thinking.

The alarms went off as I merely approached the scanner and the security officers had jumped to attention.  Despite the fact that I had already removed my shoes, glasses, belt, jacket, scarf, jewelry, and displayed the entire contents of my life contained in a carry on bag and a purse at that point they grimly escorted me to a side room, if you can call a plexiglass fishbowl such, and proceeded to determine the extent of my perfidy.  I was beginning to wonder where the bamboo splinters were.

So I wasn’t terribly surprised this time as I approached the security checkpoint with Sophia at the airport in Nashville, that the sensor began buzzing and vibrating as I approached and the nervous security guards converged on the lane. I could feel the frustrated tension of the anxious passengers behind me as I held up my hands in a modified internationally recognized sign of surrender, explained my condition, and that I was merely escorting my daughter to her gate.

“Wish you would’ve told me that sooner!” the uniformed agent blustered. Then, what? They would have waived me through with their magic wand?  Invited me to leap over the entire crowd waiting to get through security on their pink flying unicorn?

Once a female had been secured to "assist", with what I've not determined, nothing went undisturbed.  I’m still trying to figure that verbiage out, since I didn't need help with anything.  

And this time there was no privacy of the fishbowl. No, I stood spread eagle while a panel of judges determined my sentence and Sophia watched casually from afar in amusement. Remind me to discuss that with her later. In her defense, the young woman did offer to move the party off to the side, a suggestion I waived away.

“I’m a nurse,” I said, “we stick people with sharp of objects in unfortunate places all day long. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you can do here that’s more fun than that. Just do what you gotta do.” She gulped slightly and stepped back, and Sophia choked ungraciously and pretended she was traveling alone.

Regaining her composure, the young woman continued her inspection, because I truly could be hiding something in my hair, and one can never be too careful.  And my waistband, well, who knew the possibilities could be so nefarious.  Of course, the hem of my jeans were a definite possibility.  And as the "assist" started to stand, I gingerly inquired as to whether she had checked between my toes yet.  She looked up at me quizzically, wondering how to do that with my socks on.  I suppose even security has its limitations.

I'm inclined to agree with another traveler's opinion on the matter.  Next time, I'm going to the airport naked and getting dressed on the other side of security. And I won’t have to stand in any lines, I’m thinking, or call in any favors from the magic unicorns!

The Important Things

I've done a variety of things throughout my nursing career, but I have to say that working with young, troubled teenagers presents its own set of challenges. Coming from every walk of life, the common denominator is that they each have unique needs. Some have tried to meet them through drugs and alcohol, some through sex, while others cop the "tough guy" attitude, hoping against hope that someone will see through it to frightened kid underneath. Many of them play the same games lots of kids ~ and some adults ~ do, in a bid for significance. They can be manipulative and demanding, but more than anything, they are hurting and looking for love and genuine affection.

One evening recently, a young girl refused to take her medication. Rachel (not her real name) came up to the medication counter stating she did not want to take them, because they would make her sleepy. It was a dead giveaway; she was planning to run. She had been very troubled that day, and sure enough, a short time later she broke past the front desk and was out the door before anyone could stop her. It's not an unusual occurrence; quite a few try, and a lot are successful. But Rachel had a special place in my heart. Despite her bubbly, energetic personality, she was so obviously just a scared little girl.

Protocol demanding that the proper authorities be called, it wasn't until later that evening that I was able to walk the grounds, on the off chance that Rachel might still be close by and respond. It was cold and dark and she was far from home. Where could she possibly hope to go? My search revealed nothing, and I left with a heavy heart.

I was surprised to find the next day that Rachel was back, only a little scratched up and bruised for the experience. She explained how she had stayed out until it was quite dark, then scared, cold and with no place to sleep, finally came back. When she started to decline her meds again, I questioned her intentions.
"Oh no," she assured me, I'm not gonna run again." 

Glancing down at the paperwork I was working on, I replied "That makes me happy, since it wasn't fun traipsing through the woods around the facility looking for you!"
I glanced up just in time to see the look of utter amazement spread over her narrow face. She stood completely still for the space of several heartbeats, then whispered,
"Nurse Ladonna, you went looking for me?"
I held her eye for just a moment
"Of course, Rachel, why wouldn't I?"
"But you didn't tell me you did!"
Then setting the medication I was holding down and taking her hand, I softly replied, "What else would I do? You're important to me."

Then I realized with a jolt of clarity, isn't that exactly what God does for us? Every time we decide things must be better "out there", and decide we know best; every time we throw away His provision and go our own way; every time we get scared and bolt from the path He's laid out, His stubborn love (thank you, Kathy Troccoli!) doesn't just call to us, it doesn't berate us, it goes out looking for us! And even though He may not tell us everything He is doing, He never stops looking for us because....what else would He do? We're important to Him!

Lessons From the Incubator

Lessons From the Incubator 


I sat in the bereavement room on the third floor of the hospital where I worked as a neonatal nurse. It's a small room,  about 10 x 12 feet, where people go to deal with the impossible, the  inexplicable, the death of their baby, the death of a dream. Bereavement. Such  a sophisticated sounding word, like a baby's death can somehow be legitimized  if we speak of it in hushed tones, or cloak it in grand sounding soliloquies.

The muted decorations of lavender and  green mock the deafening silence that enfolds parents who sit on the  floral covered couches holding cold, silent infants in their arms, one  last time. As I sit there, I notice a box of tissues on an end table that  screams to me of the agony of loss that no one should ever have to  face. Then I read that the tears we cry are precious to our Creator, that  He sees each of them and they touch His heart.

And in the silence of that quiet,  private room, where my own heart cried its own well of tears, I heard God  gently speak – "Don't waste pain". Don't waste pain? It seems somewhat akin to  saying "Don't waste garbage". How can you waste something that is worthless  anyway? Then I think of the mother who, upon losing her baby, declined an  autopsy, a test that might have shed light on why her baby died, and provided  insight that could have helped other babies with similar conditions. Who could  fault such a mother for not wanting to prolong the agony of her loss, but  rather simply bury her dead and go on with life as best she could? Oh, but  then I remember the mother who, through her tears upon hearing of her tiny son's fatal heart defect, requested that when the time came, his other organs be used if possible to save the lives of other babies! Don't waste  pain!

Life comes to us replete with pain and  heartache. It is one of the inevitable truths of life. We have the choice to either wallow in our pain, holding it close and shielding ourselves with it from the  rest of the world, or welcoming the healing water of Christ's love to pour over the wounded and torn places of our hearts, washing us with His love. But  as wonderful as the second choice is, there is one other choice we have before us: that is to embrace the hurt, welcoming the opportunities that the  pain brings us to create a place of refuge for others who are hurting.   How like Christ to not simply take our pain away, but to help us do something so extraordinary with it that the positive results from the painful experience in our lives outweigh the negative consequences of the experience to begin with!

What a journey of discovery, to realize that the God of the Universe, who loves with an everlasting love, sees our pain and holds it close to His heart. Our pain is not worthless, but a honing tool in the hands of a Loving God, to bring definition to our characters, light into our darkest places, and His overwhelming love into hearts broken by pain and sorrow. And ultimately, to make us into His image, the Image of His dear son, Jesus Christ.

She Called Me Mom

She called me mom. Gina (not her real name) had been outside and came back in with a sunburn that evening. Because few chemicals can be left in the possession of any of the kids, the aloe vera had to be applied by a nurse and documented accordingly. I was tired, and had my own children waiting at home; but I trekked down the hall to her room where Gina lay on her bed, face in her pillows. I gently rubbed the soothing cream over her blistered shoulders and neck. Looking on, her roommate piped up.
“Nurse Ladonna, I think you take care of us like you do because you have kids of your own”.
I paused, reflecting on that comment, then continued. Perhaps she was right. I’ve certainly applied enough aloe vera in my time!
Then a muffled voice said, “Nurse Ladonna, can I call you mom?” Gina craned her neck around to gauge my response. Unruly and obnoxious though they can be at times, something inside of me hurt for this little girl, and I smiled reassuringly at her. 
“Gina, you can call me whatever you like. Just don’t go outside like that without sunscreen again” the mom in me replied.
I love being a mom. Though not without its difficulties and frustrations, having these amazing people who ask questions, present new ideas, and challenge me to be a better person is at once exhausting and exhilarating. 
On my better days I remember that this whole symbiotic relationship is more than keeping mouths fed, bodies clothed and minds stretching; but I sometimes forget that the greater picture of the parent/child relationship is something beyond the here and now, that it is based on the eternal relationship of God and man. What I do is merely an imperfect reflection of the Perfect Parent and His not-so-perfect children. 
As I finished the simple task, I thought of the many times I had done something similar for one of my own children. And yet this one had no one to do such a simple thing for her. And I thought of the power there is in the concept of being a parent, the overwhelming desolation when that space is vacated and children are left to raise themselves. The damage done in those formative years by the lack of or ineptitude of parents is profound, and the consequences last a lifetime. 
We never outgrow the need to be loved and affirmed. God must have known this when the Bible refers to Him as our Heavenly Father. Indeed, we are told to call him Abba Father. Abba, the Aramaic word that would most closely be translated as “Daddy” was a common term that young children used to address their fathers. It signifies the close, intimate relationship of a father to his child, as well as the childlike trust that a young child puts in his “daddy.”
As I turned her light out and wished her good night, a child-like questioning voice came out of the darkness, “Good night…..mom”. I stood with my hand on the door knob and recognized again that we are the only representation of Christ some people will ever see. And if one of them has to call me mom to get to the love of her Heavenly Father….I’ll rub aloe vera on a few more sunburns.

Promises Kept

“Promise me you’ll see me again!” her delicate hands felt as though they were covered with tissue paper as they grasped my much younger ones.  And I felt like a young child being earnestly instructed by its parent. I deflected her request with assurances that the office would certainly contact her later, you know, to see how she was doing. She appeared unperturbed by my reticence.

“He’s with Jesus now, he’s not hurting anymore” and there was a sweet simplicity in her childlike statement.  Her husband’s passing several hours before yielded confusion interspersed with moments of vivid clarity as she struggled to hold onto each thought.

“His breathing got slower and slower, then it just stopped.” she said to the room at large.  Then the veil of confusion lowered over her milky blue eyes and she turned to me again. “Promise me you’ll come see me again, dear!” then turning back to her daughter, who patiently reminded her again who she was and of her husband's passing.  And I wondered how hard it must be to relive that kind of loss repeatedly when our own minds can no longer hold onto and process information.

I completed the requisite tasks as we waited for the funeral director to arrive.  And we talked. Sixty one years it had been.  That, she remembered with clarity.  As well as the memories of their first date, their first home, their first child, as well as the two they’d lost.  And grief was still mirrored in her face at the memory.  But she would see them again, she assured me.  And her mother’s heart beat in her voice when she said it. And she loved him, the man who lay cold and still in the bed across the room. Of that she was sure, as well.  And despite her daddy’s objections, she had married him. They had been poor, poorer than the mice that lived in the balcony of the old Baptist church they’d been married in, and her quirky grin had to be a reflection of the demurely impertinent young girl she had once been. Then her mama and daddy died. Did you know they were buried in the cemetery just down the road? But they were in Heaven, too, and she would see them again soon. And I marveled at her peaceful, albeit simple, confidence.

I finished up a few last obligatory matters as the coroner made his final preparations to leave.  Then kneeling beside her chair, I put my arms around her frail body in a gentle hug. And as I leaned back, I felt her hands on the sides of my face “promise me you’ll see me again!” And there was a clarity in her sharp eyes that belied her transient confusion. And suddenly, I understood. Her insistence for my promise suddenly made perfect sense, and my heart clenched with the understanding.  Our eyes met with mutual clarity.  “Yes,” I murmured softly, “I promise, I will see you again”.  And her contented smile remained even as her eyes clouded again in sweet confusion. 

Tears blurred my vision as I stepped out the front door into the bitter cold that morning. I may never come here to visit her again, but I will never forget her simple admonition. I will see you again, dear one. That, I promise.