Parched

Such a pretty baby…a tiny, fragile, delicate little thing.  At 12 weeks of age she developed a newly insistent, urgent cry that was misunderstood until all-at-once it became obvious she was failing.  Opaque skin stretching across her toothpick-neck became pinched and drawn.  Her dull eyes sunk inward.  Salmon-colored spots appeared on her diaper, and then she went an entire day without needing a diaper change at all.

When the pieces of the previously unrecognized puzzle finally came together, we realized stress and busyness had affected mama’s milk supply.  Baby was dehydrated.  It was a time of grave concern when several professionals were consulted.

It seems interesting that before, during, and after this moment of crisis I saw some shadow of myself reflected in baby Ellie’s huge blue eyes.  Like Ellie, sometimes I thrive, fattened by abundant provisions.  Sometimes I don’t; I fall prey to loss and fear, hoping to merely survive.  Sometimes I’m in a state of rescue, becoming someone I could never become except for the time of pain.

Baby Ellie’s thrashing wails have been replaced by shy, demure blinks, smiles, and coos.  She is frail, but recovering.  The moral?  As clueless sheep under the care of the Good Shepherd, our parched desert experiences don’t last forever, nor are they without purpose.