He was gently lifted — his tiny, fragile, purple body — and carefully placed against my chest. A chest that somehow rose and fell easily, despite my shattered heart. My eyes brimmed with the painful effort required to stifle tears that would flow endlessly once released. His face was obscured by tangled wires connecting him to machines that beeped and flickered, sounding alarmed when his tiny lungs struggled to do what they were meant to.
The turmoil my first pregnancy inflicted on my body was enough to jeopardize the chance of having another. And yet, here he was, in all his extraordinary and perfect improbability. The boy-that-almost-wasn’t, was. Moments felt like hours, hours bled into days. Days sometimes felt like they could be his last when morning rounds revealed alarming episodes of respiratory distress, turning his body navy blue. Or during nights when his heartbeat was almost imperceptible. Or weight loss too severe to consider taking him home.
The time spent cradling my son, praying that the sound of my voice and the warmth of my skin would be enough to keep him among us, was excruciating. I watched and listened. We were engulfed in a battle for life — a fight so fierce just to exist. Babies no larger than my palm, surrounded by entire teams of medical personnel, anxiously observing, waiting for the moment to spring into action when tiny hearts falter or fragile lungs fail. Each of these little souls clung to life like a blade of grass breaking through concrete. So resolute in their determination, yet so susceptible to destruction from a careless step.
Every night, we transitioned from this realm of fragility to one filled with chaos. The fear of unintentionally bringing COVID-19 into the NICU was paralyzing. We donned masks and isolated ourselves. We scrubbed our hands until they burned, repeatedly washing them in a futile attempt to keep our son safe. Even a simple cold — a runny nose you wished was merely seasonal allergies, a sore throat you attributed to the changing weather, a cough you excused as morning hoarseness — could be a careless heel crushing the blades of grass, and so many more that remained unseen. The common cold could endanger these children’s lives; COVID could surely spell disaster.
As I scrolled through my news feed, which had once been filled with joyful moments and updates from loved ones, I was dismayed to find it saturated with conspiracy theories and propaganda. There were calls for anti-mask protests and rants against perceived corrupt governments. I came across angry tirades and fearful sermons warning of threats to personal liberty and religious freedom. Most painfully, I read the furious comments from fellow Christians claiming that a “virus that only affects the elderly and vulnerable” was being exploited to strip them of their God-given rights. “Welcome to communist China,” my cousin proclaimed, “why are we in lockdown over a virus with a 97% survival rate?”
My heart shattered, the pieces falling around me like fragments of glass. What she truly conveyed was that my child, the 3%, was an acceptable sacrifice for her to host Thanksgiving dinner with all the traditional flair. So she could don her Sunday best and stroll through a full church congregation. The 3% was deemed an acceptable cost to preserve her comfort and privilege. I wept. Then I prayed. And then I recalled…
There’s another term for vulnerability. Jesus referred to them as the least of these. He commanded us to seek them out, care for them, and protect them, even at great personal cost. We are instructed to nurture and serve them with the same selfless love that Christ exhibited on the cross. However, here’s the catch: vulnerability isn’t always apparent.
Beyond the visible frailties that accompany old age, significant vulnerabilities exist within seemingly able-bodied individuals. Poverty, homelessness, and disenfranchisement create barriers to healthcare, nutrition, and overall well-being. Anyone with diabetes, asthma, COPD, autoimmune disorders, and countless other afflictions faces vulnerability. Those recovering in ICUs from severe traumas or surgeries are vulnerable too. Chronic health conditions affect people who are working, attending school, raising families, and engaging in their communities. Individuals like my parents, who dedicate their lives to caring for others, cherished by their grandchildren and adored by my sister and me. Or my best friend’s husband, who is still working and raising three children while fostering a fourth, all while managing a critical heart condition. And the tiniest babies in incubators. Human lives brought into this world amid overwhelming challenges. They are vulnerable too. Their lives hold equal value to those of the elderly who also face significant risks.
For Christians, this isn’t our first encounter with a pandemic. Author Brian Stiller highlights historical instances where Christians set aside personal comforts and assumed great risks to care for the afflicted and vulnerable. In discussions with Christianity Today, esteemed biblical scholar N.T. Wright recalls how Martin Luther set a precedent for the Christian response to public health crises, emphasizing that “we must not spread infection. It’s irresponsible and plays with other people’s lives. If we cherish our church buildings more than we love our neighbors, then we’re in danger.”
However, our current reality leaves much to be desired. Somewhere along the line, we’ve become so accustomed to comfort that we’ve lost sight of what a genuine crisis looks like. A century of unprecedented health and wealth has clouded our understanding of real suffering. In this time of abundance, our privilege has distanced us from the “least of these” to the point where we no longer recognize true oppression. In North America, where Judeo-Christian values shape our culture, true religious persecution is seldom directed at Christians. Thus, if your identity as a follower of Christ is more entrenched in tradition and routine than in Christ himself, it’s easy to misinterpret inconvenience as oppression.
Free will and personal liberty are among God’s most precious gifts. Yet, it can also be argued that the first act of personal liberty led to humanity’s fall. Individual actions have the potential to cause tremendous harm to others. One of the greatest challenges of the Christian experience is the call to relinquish our privileges and adopt a servant’s heart; “in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others” (Philippians 2:4).
Your human nature constantly clashes with the biblical call to emulate Christ. Ultimately, there is no greater love than that of one who lays down their life for a friend (John 15:13). To interpret this passage as solely literal would be naive.
Christ endured the agony of the cross. He surrendered his free will and personal liberty. He made the ultimate sacrifice. All that’s being asked of you is to slightly adjust your own life. I can think of numerous things far easier than dying of asphyxiation and multiple stab wounds.
- Wash your hands.
- Wear a mask.
- Maintain social distance.
- Stay home.
It’s really not that hard. So let’s step up. We can do better.
For further insights on this topic, check out this related blog post, and for more information on home insemination, visit Make A Mom, an authority on the subject. Also, don’t miss this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
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In summary, this letter urges Christians to reassess their priorities in light of vulnerability and the importance of caring for the least among us, especially during challenging times. The message emphasizes that true love mirrors the self-sacrifice of Christ, calling for action rather than complacency in the face of crisis.