It was December in Canada-a wet, wind-whipped month that piled snow in sculpted drifts and encased tree branches in ice. I stood at the window, feeling like a hermit marooned in a cave. Then again, with the way I was feeling, a padded cell might be a better metaphor. It had been a frazzling day. My three-year-old was irritable because we couldn't go to the park, and my eighteen-month-old was fractious with a fever. I was waiting anxiously for my husband to come home from work, worried about the long drive he had to make on treacherous highways to reach us.
It was three days before Christmas-another source of stress. My husband and I had been living in Canada for three years, but I still felt a keen homesickness for my family back in Utah, especially with the holidays approaching. Though I enjoyed our new home and didn't regret the move, there were times when the loneliness hit me particularly hard. I pictured my mother's hot chocolate, my family gathered around the piano to sing carols, and the beautiful crocheted ornaments on Mom's tree. I felt very isolated and left out. I knew almost no one in Canada. At times I felt I'd wandered so far away from home that even God had lost track of me.
It had been a difficult month leading up to the holidays. Since we had only one car and my husband had to take it to work, Christmas shopping wasn't much fun. I had to haul both children with me on the bus if I wanted to go anywhere on a weekday. And with my youngest, Ryan, feeling ill and the Canadian weather being, well, Canadian, I hadn't been able to get out of the house as much as I'd wanted.
I had had a particular present in mind for Ryan–one of those push toys that pops little balls around in a plastic bubble like popcorn as you push it. Ryan was an energetic, exuberant little boy, and I thought the cheerful popping noise and dancing balls would be great fun for him. I remembered having a toy like it when I was small. But I'd scoured every store I could think of and had had no luck locating one. There were lots of flashy, noisy toys-most requiring batteries or electricity-but no old–fashioned push toys. With Christmas looming near, I'd given up and come home with another present for him, but I was still disappointed. Really, it was a small thing, I felt myself grumbling, but couldn't even a small thing go smoothly in my life? Did everything always have to be such a struggle?
By the time my husband came home that afternoon, Ryan's condition had worsened. His fever would not come down. He had a history of having seizures when his fever spiked too fast, and I was anxious that it might happen again. We decided to go to the emergency department at the hospital as a precaution. Usually, whenever I rushed the kids to the doctor for some reason, it would turn out I had panicked for nothing; the kids were fine. So I was alarmed when the physician told us we'd been wise to bring him in and that he wanted to admit Ryan.
I hadn't expected this. I thought he'd just write a prescription and send us home. A hospital admission wasn't in my plans. I worked evenings at home as a phone operator for a pizza company, a job I hadn't had for long, so I quickly called my supervisor to let him know I wouldn't be able to work that evening. Thankfully he was understanding, so my husband and I settled in to spend the evening with Ryan, getting him situated in his room in the pediatrics unit and trying to keep him and his brother entertained. Finally, I took my older son home and my husband stayed the night with Ryan.
The next day Ryan was diagnosed with a general staph infection, potentially serious but treatable. My husband and I spelled each other off throughout the day. That night I took the hospital shift, spending an uncomfortable night in a chair by Ryan's railed bed. Hospital rooms are foreign and unfriendly places, despite the caring treatment of nurses with teddy bears on their scrubs. The smells, sounds, and hard surfaces all convey discomfort and illness, the sense that things are not right. My son was too unwell to really care where he was and too young to grasp what was happening. But I had an adult's knowledge of potential problems and a vivid imagination, and my anxiety and feelings of isolation only grew during those dark hours.
The next day Ryan began to respond to the antibiotics and started feeling well enough to become bored with lying in bed. I spent the day devising desperate little entertainments with plastic-cup pyramids and Kleenex puppets until I started to wonder if there was a bed available for me in the psychiatric unit, should I need it by the end of the day.
Christmas Eve came, and even though Ryan had improved some-what, I was disappointed to learn that the doctor wanted to keep him at the hospital longer. We would not be home for Christmas. Once again I cancelled my shift, worried my boss would think I was making up excuses to get out of working on the one night no one wanted to work.
On what was supposed to be the most joyous of all nights, I was feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't help it. I was far from home, far from family, worried for my son, and wanted my mother so badly. And now we couldn't even have a proper Christmas dinner. All my plans were out the window. My husband and I sat in the hospital room, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken with the boys and trying to make the best of it.
Ryan was the only child left in the unit over Christmas. All the other kids were sent home. The halls were empty. The staff was cut to the bare minimum. Ryan seemed content and in good hands, and my husband and I were exhausted, so we decided we would both go home for the night, celebrate Christmas with our three-year-old, and return to the hospital in the morning.
On Christmas Day, the Shriners, a charitable organization, sent a volunteer dressed as Santa Claus to the hospital to deliver presents to the children. But of course, Ryan was the only one there. I was surprised Santa had even bothered to stop by. The bright-costumed gentleman scared Ryan a little, so he didn't linger, but he gave a present to Ryan before he left-a push toy that popped little balls in a plastic bubble as you pushed it.
I couldn't believe it. I had searched everywhere for just that toy, and here it was, delivered by "Santa" himself. As I watched my son toddle happily up and down the hospital halls with his noisy popper, I felt my weariness and sadness fade away, and I was filled with a strong sense of comfort. I knew God's hand was in my life. I might be far from home and in a worrisome situation, but I wasn't alone or overlooked after all. I hadn't been forgotten. I knew my wishes for a push toy to give to Ryan were not particularly important, especially in comparison to my wishes for his recovery. But Heavenly Father knew the secret and silly desires of my heart. What was important to me was important to Him. And He cared enough to acknowledge those desires of my heart with that simple gift. With tears in my eyes, I turned to my husband, but my heart was too full to express what I was feeling. I could only manage, "See? Someone knows we're here."
My
husband just smiled and replied, "Yes. But is it God or the
Shriners?"
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