Faith

There’s a unique kind of comfort I get when I’m at a hospital.

I’ve been a mostly healthy adult, but as a child, I was in and out of emergency rooms because of my asthma.

I’ll take cold rooms, long waits, needles, and sterile smells if it means I get to breathe.

That comfort is rare, I know. But I dwelled on it this morning, when I found myself wearing the familiar blue gown, being connected to fetal monitors. It took a while to land, that feeling. It wasn’t until we heard his heartbeat that I realized the scope of that comfort.

It always came when I had some information. If anything could challenge it, it would be uncertainty and the possibility of terrible news.

I never felt like my asthma could kill me. I was either too little to make sense of the severity of the condition, or too immature in my 20s to take it too seriously. I attached superpowers to my inhaler, and whenever I found myself deciding to go to an emergency room, I still felt a sense of safety because all I needed was stronger meds and doctors to pull me out of the crisis.

No big deal. Comfort, even in the scent of the albuterol as its mist condensed inside my breathing mask.

The third trimester of my first pregnancy came with high blood pressure complications. Several more ER trips and two hospitalizations. My initial reaction was to lean into that familiar feeling of “it’s fine, we’re at the hospital,” until my doctor explained the severity of high blood pressure during pregnancy.

Still, even though I was more cautious, I felt at ease wearing the gown, being poked for IV fluids, and hearing the constant beeping of the monitors. Somehow, I convinced myself Elena and I would be fine.

I hadn’t thought much about this, but today it took hold of my mind for several hours. First, as I drove to the hospital, desperate to feel the baby’s strong kicks; then, as I waited five eternal seconds to hear his heartbeat while they put the belly bands on; and one last time, as I got dressed after being discharged.

There was fear, and then comfort once again. This time, greater than I’ve ever felt it.

And it hit me: the true source. It doesn’t come from feeling looked after by trained medical staff or from my body remembering that every time we’ve been here, we’ve been okay.

Faith has been feeding that comfort, even before I ever acknowledged it. And now that I can name that faith by name, fear has less power. I lean into His comfort.