Walking through the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, it feels as though I am walking through a memory. Riding through the familiar streets of the suburb I've called home my whole life, it feels like being pulled through a dream. As I walk up to the door, a face I know very well greets me. She embraces me with tears streaming from her eyes, but her smile tells me these are tears of joy. I know that this is my mother.
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A new day dawns. I meet a man who is working from home. This is a blessing to him because he has spent six hard months balancing work, caring for his two older girls, and daily visits to the hospital where his littlest warrior has spent her whole life. I am grateful to join him and his wife for lunch.
We spend the next six hours by Hannah's bedside. We talk of many things. Conversations range from daily frustrations to surprising joys and through a lifetime of memories shared we find connections in the year we have been apart. I see so much love in his eyes when he looks at his daughter. I know that this is my brother.
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I spend the limited days I have in the United States with this family and I see a strength in them that is admirable anywhere in the world. Everyday is a life and death struggle for their newest child. But through the grace of their spirit, they take care to still spend family time together, never allowing their elder two girls to feel sidelined. They are honest with every struggle. Their daughters are learning valuable lessons of facing hardship with simplicity and responsibility.
These are hard lessons. I spend my last day there with Angie and my mother in Hannah's room. Throughout the day, I learn my own lesson. I see Angie know just when to reposition her daughter. I see her know just how she likes to sit. I see the way that care and compassion manifests itself in every situation. Even the situations that many would say have little hope can be made brighter by the presence of love that seeks to bring comfort, no matter the size or scope.
I see Angie carry this love through her pain. I see that her daughter has a happier day because of its presence. I see the love grow each time she smiles at her other daughters despite this incredible time of grieving. I know that the love Angie has for her daughter will last far longer than her daughter's life and that the memories will be hard. But I know that she will carry the love always. I know that this is my sister.
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I am grateful for the wellspring of support this family has. I am grateful for the friends that have rallied beside them. I am grateful for the church body that provides relief in every way it can.
More than all, I am grateful I could return home to be with them. Because in my time at home, I saw their need. Money can help with the financial crisis that comes with a hospitalized child. Dinners can lighten the workload and volunteers can help balance occupational stress with focusing time on family. But these do not provide relief from suffering.
No amount of sympathy or pity or condolences can provide relief. Presence instead suffers with love. Sometimes the load cannot be lightened, but it can be shared.
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My family has taught me so much throughout my life. This lesson is probably one of the most significant I have ever learned. If we say we will share love with the world, we must offer them more than pity. We must be willing to be present, both through trials and through tribulations.
Many people have asked me why I went home. I went home to be with my family as they suffer. Now, many people ask me why I return to the field. I return to the field for the same reason. Because somewhere in the world, my brother is suffering. And so I go.
I go so my presence may remind him he does not suffer alone.
