Aj Schwanz

O God, within this strange and quickened dust
The beating heart controls the coursing blood
In discipline that holds in check the flood
But cannot stem corrosion and dark rust,
In flesh’s solitude I count it blest
That only you, my Lord, can see my heart
With passion’s darkness tearing it apart
With storms of self, and tempests of unrest,
But your love breaks through blackness, bursts with light;
We separate ourselves, but you rebind
In Dayspring all our fragments; body, mind
And spirit join, unite against the night.
Healed by your love, corruption and decay
Are turned, and whole, we greet the light of day.
~Madeleine L’Engle

Today at Bible Study, a friend brought her new baby - not even two weeks old. This blessed little creature made faces and snuggled into her blanket while we passed her around our small group, each person getting her baby fix. I played with her perfect fingers, touched her sweet head, scrunched up my face when she scrunched hers.

In a nearby city, other friends sit with their newborn son, except he isn’t being held: he’s hooked up to wires and monitors in the NICU. He was born with a blocked intestine and required surgery; recovery seemed to be going well until last night when a setback was evident.

Two babies: two similar pregnancies: two completely different experiences. Why is it this way?

It’s so easy to fall into fear, to worry that something like that might happen to my family if we ever decided to have another child. Jason pointed out that every moment brings an element of “danger”: every drive in a car, every walk on the street, every little germ that could create a cold or other . . .

God, break through the tempests of unrest and blackness of fear with your bursting light - for me, for my friends and their little ones, for all who need the light of spring and life and love and you.