I number minutes like stars. The minutes Jack is in my arms. The minutes he sleeps, oxygen levels resting in the high 90s, that even 100. The minutes between where we sleep and where he is, the minutes of hallway, elevator, distance.
And the minutes of prayer.
Last night we stood over the giraffe warmer, which my baby doesn’t need, feisty and strong as he is, keeping his own temperature, and my eyes fell on the icon Preston brought from our living room – the good shepherd, the lamb on his shoulders. It sits and looks over the edge of where Jack sleeps, and out past him, to the hum and beep of the other beds, the other little ones.
Months ago, at the first phone call, at the very beginning, when we didn’t know anything but the need for a follow-up ultrasound, the need for a consultation, the need to see a more specialized doctor… I stood at that icon weeping and cradling my belly and asking Jesus again and again where He was. I wept and asked and I told Jesus, again and again, that He could do something, that where there was skin or muscle missing He could build it. Wasn’t it His voice at the beginning, singing the world into being? Wasn’t it His voice the wind and waves obeyed?
Wasn’t Jesus the one who spat on tongues and spread mud on eyes and put his fingers in ears and declared, by the words of his mouth, be opened?
And wasn’t it Jesus, reaching down into death, calling back Lazarus, the widow’s son, Jairus’s daughter?
Last night I looked again – my son has a mark from his IV in his hand that looks just like the mark in Jesus’ hands in the icon. The hands that are holding the lamb on his shoulders. The hands that, even in these long minutes, I believe – I must believe – are holding my son.
I cannot number all the stars or all the minutes.. But then I remember:
To whom then will you compare me,
that I should be like him? says the Holy One.
Lift up your eyes on high and see:
who created these?
He who brings out their host by number,
calling them all by name,
by the greatness of his might,
and because he is strong in power
not one is missing.
And I remember, again:
The Lord builds up Jerusalem;
he gathers the outcasts of Israel.
He heals the brokenhearted,
and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars;
he gives to all of them their names.
Great is our Lord, and abundant in power;
his understanding is beyond measure.
The Lord can count the stars. He can name them all. Who am I, then, to think that Jesus has not been mindful of these minutes? Who am I, then, to think Jesus has not counted each one with me, His knowledge of them far more perfect than anything I could fathom?
Jesus has seen each minute of prayer, of worry, of resting, of oxygen and of desperate joy when Jack is in my arms and I feel the weight of him, his hand grabbing my shirt, and Jesus is numbering the minutes with us.
Isaiah 40, Psalm 147 – God numbering the stars is hidden among the promise that God comforts His people, that God should be praised for His care of His people. Hidden among the bigger promise is the piece I can cling to: Jesus knows each star, each minute. Jesus holds us, counting each breath.
Last night, I held Jack and swayed my first sway of motherhood, singing his father’s favorite:
This is my Father’s world
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees of skies and seas
His hand the wonders wrought.
Number the stars, Lord Jesus, number the minutes. I believe I have only begun to see Your nearness and Your love. I believe I have only begun to see the wonders Your hands have wrought, and can, and will.
Come, Lord Jesus, number the minutes with me.
jack’s mom, and your hilary