It’s January. It’s a short sentence that doesn’t warrant any other punctuation than a period. No exclamation points to be sure. It’s a dismissive little sentence that for some explains away the blahs and bluesy feelings one might have this time of the year. The cold air, the biting wind, the cloudy sky that gets gray and grayer, the dim mornings and the early darkness that creeps its way into what was once a hopeful day – All of these are scapegoat explanations for the real reasons for the blues, a substitution for things people don’t wish to think about or share. It’s January.
It’s January. There are two babies. Maybe three. All of them clinging to life. Living yet, but precariously close to the edge. There are two sets of parents, hopeful. Maybe a third set, but for them the hope may be fading. There’s Finley and Danielle and perhaps another, all three ‘fearfully and wonderfully made.’
It’s January. There’s Finley, or Fin for short and Danielle, Dani, to her friends and family. Fin, a six month-old, smiley, seemingly healthy, doing what a six month old should be doing. Dani, tiny, tiny Dani out of the womb for a couple weeks only, hooked up to a mile of tubes and wires. Finley and Danielle and the other, praising the God who loves them by doing what little ones are created naturally to do.
It’s January. When it was no longer safe to be in the womb; when what should have been a safe and friendly place, warm and nurturing, became hostile; it was time for Danielle to be born. Three months ahead of schedule, weighing in at a pound and an ounce, before anyone expected, she came face to face with the ones who love her. Her parents, firm in the knowledge that the One who loved Dani first would provide and sustain her, are filled with hope.
It’s January. Finley. Ah, lovely Finley. Precious and beautiful. Perky and fun. A child of God. A month or so ago she got sick and wasn’t able to shake whatever it was that was causing the illness. After weeks in the hospital with doctors and specialists, the answer came. Her liver is no good. She would need another. A transplant. Her parents, confident that their precious Fin is in the hands of the God who loves her, now wait. … And now somewhere there may be parents, unknown to all of us, of the other child, also waiting.
It’s January. I’d like to say that I can give a full report on how the babies are doing. I can’t. It’s too early. No one knows the future. No one knows the paths these babies will eventually travel. I have to leave all of this in God’s hands, realizing that life doesn’t happen according to my plans, my ways of thinking. God’s ways and thoughts are way beyond my understanding. What I do know is that “Our only comfort in life and in death is that we belong to our faithful savior, Jesus Christ… “1
It’s January. While that little two-word sentence does not really give a good explanation for how things are, I’ll admit the cold, dark, loneliness of January days can get to me. However, as I write this on this cold January morning the sun is coming up again. Today promises to be one of blue skies and sunshine. Cloudy skies or clear, God is good. He will take care of things for us. That’s today’s gift.
1 – Heidelberg Catechism Q and A 1
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