Hannah Hope

{Psalm 139:16} Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.

Weighing only 3 pounds, her head slightly larger than the size of my palm, and her small hands unable to wrap fully around my thumb; she was a lovely creature of intricate design. Her features lovingly chosen, she was woven together in her mother’s womb by the Sovereign Creator God.

Some may think that Hannah’s life began by surprise, seemingly an unwelcome one, but to her Heavenly Father, she was right on time within His master plan, and for His purpose. The story of Hannah’s conception and birth are unknown, but her tiny life collided with mine only hours after she made her entrance into the world.

The first time I saw Hannah’s tiny frame, it was wrapped in a dirty towel and laying on the warmer in the labor ward. Two midwives were leaning over her, speaking in quiet voices. I went over to listen. Hannah’s mama had delivered her outside in the jungle. Whether this woman was afraid, ashamed, or indifferent is unknown, but she left her baby there in the mud. Another women was hunting for firewood and found the tiny, baby girl. She scooped her up and brought her to the hospital.

We all stood around the warmer, looking down at the sweet girl, musing out loud what was to be done with her. The staff assumed the Rescuer would want to keep her. An abandoned child is a rare thing in this country. There is always someone who will take the child and raise it as their own. But this woman was weighed down with her own cares. With deep lines of exhaustion on her face, she told us about the four boys she was raising on her own. Her husband had just left her. The midwives assured her that to have just one more child wouldn’t be a difficulty, but the Rescuer sighed and said “No, I can’t do it.” The midwives told her that if she started to nurse the baby, her milk would come in. The Rescuer touched her breasts and a conflicted look crossed her features. And then another brisk, “No.” It wasn’t just a matter of taking the baby girl home today. It was looking in on her in the Special Care Nursery every two hours, making sure she was getting fed, changing her nappies, and giving her baths. After that, it would mean bottles and formula (if her milk didn’t come in). It was expense and a full-time commitment. No wonder she was hesitant. As this conversation was going on, I looked back and forth between the baby, the Rescuer, and the midwife, taking in the information and praying frantically. An idea was formulating in my mind, but I kept pushing it aside, telling the Lord, “No, Father. I can’t! It doesn’t make sense and it wouldn’t work!” And then He nudged me again and opened my mouth.

I looked straight at the Rescuer and said, “What if I look after the baby over the weekend? That will give you time to find someone else to take her.”

The look of relief in her face was startling. I had sensed her stress and exhaustion before, but when I offered to be the baby’s “watch mama,” she was visibly relieved. And I was immediately anxious. What had I gotten myself into? What would be required of me? How would I get back and forth from the nursery?? I’d volunteered for the weekend, but what if Monday came and no one stepped forward? The questions were rolling around in my mind. The Lord had asked me to volunteer myself, but after the words left my mouth, I was questioning the wisdom of my choice.

I looked down at that tiny girl, and the name "Hannah" popped into my mind. I’ve always named the babies I don’t think are going to survive, but this one seemed to need a name even more. With no mama, no family line, no advocate; she needed a kind of identity that a name seemed to give. From that moment forth, she became my Hannah.

Hannah was carried off to the Special Care Nursery with her Rescuer trailing behind. I didn’t follow them. I didn’t know what I should be doing. I was there to work with the laboring mamas and I felt conflicted about the decision I had just made.

My friend and I finished our work for the day and when our ride arrived, we walked through the dirty corridor and out into the sunshine. We talked about what was next and the logistics of caring for a preemie in a hospital 20 minutes down the road. Especially when each of us had so many responsibilities vying for our time. We laughed at the thought of breaking the news to her dad. 

When we got into the van, I said, “So… I’ve committed to care for an abandoned infant this weekend. Is that okay? Do you think you can drive us back and forth?”

Without missing a beat, my friend’s dad said, “Sure! Whatever you need.”

“Well,” I said. “We need nappies and baby soap and clothing and a towel and washcloth...” I started to make a list on my phone. This was the beginning.

We returned that evening, removed our shoes, and walked barefoot into the nursery where the 5 o’clock feeding had commenced. Mamas were sitting on stools or crouched on the floor. If they weren’t expressing their milk into tiny medicine cups, they were pouring it into the corner of their infant’s mouth or through a tube into their stomach. It was a hushed environment and there were no baby cries. All eyes turned to stare when we came through the door.

We walked over and introduced ourselves to the nurse and told her that we were going to be looking after the abandoned baby that had just come in. We told her that we couldn’t come every two hours like other mamas, but that we could come once or twice a day to do what needed to be done. 

She explained the routine. “Over there are buckets for dirty nappies. Get one and put it by the baby’s bed. Those little blue tubs are for bathing the baby. Hot water is over there in that tea drum.”

I put our carefully collected supplies next to our girl’s bed and went to prepare her bath water. I tempered the boiling hot water from the tea drum with cold water from the tap. Some giant, red ants had made a home somewhere close by and were swarming all over the sink. Hannah was bundled up, laying on top of a hot water bottle. I reached underneath to feel it. It was cold. Her skin was cold. There is only one working incubator in the nursery and it was occupied by another preemie whose mama was leaning over and tenderly talking to her baby. My friend and I tried to wash Hannah but it was difficult as she still had blood and afterbirth crusted on from hours earlier. She needed a good soak, but her skin was delicate and I was so afraid of hurting her. In the end, we wiped her very little and then bundled her back up. I hoped to have another chance to clean her up in a day or two. Hannah had an IV, and two tubes down her nose; one for oxygen, the other in her stomach. The nurses said that we didn’t need to feed her yet, so we tidied up and left.

We returned the following day in the morning and again that evening. On that Sunday evening, we found Hannah in one of the broken incubators, still atop her water bottle. This time it was toasty warm and I was thankful to find her skin warmer to the touch. No one had come forward to care for her, so we told the staff that we would be back. We didn’t know what this new care routine would look like, and we didn’t know for how long we could commit to come, but Hannah needed an advocate. I left my phone number with the nurse and told her that I wanted to be notified if/when anything happened. They agreed.

My friend posted on Facebook asking for prayer, and the response was astounding. News of baby Hannah spread like wildfire and multiple people wrote asking what was required to adopt her. Many asked how they could help and what she needed. It was encouraging and completely overwhelming.

The week started and each day, after work and school, we went back to the nursery; bumping along the road, dodging potholes, headed in to see Hannah. We never knew what to expect but always went hopeful that we would hear of a line come to get her. Still no word. Meanwhile, we continued to pray with two couples who had seriously expressed interested in adopting her.

So much was going through my mind and heart on these days. Hannah was the first thing that I thought of when I woke up, and the last thing on my mind and in my prayers when I went to sleep. I thought of her and prayed for her constantly throughout the day. I was utterly overwhelmed and was continuously pouring my heart out to the Lord. I worried about committing myself to something that wasn’t mine to take. I worried about overstepping cultural boundaries and getting myself (and Hannah) into trouble. I felt a responsibility to those who asked for information in person and over social media, but felt that perhaps Hannah wasn’t mine to “promote” for adoption, especially when the nursery staff were so vague about what that process would look like. In the meantime, no national family had come forward and I doubted whether anyone was still even pursuing them. I’m fairly confident that the Rescuer went home to her village, relieved that someone had committed to care for the baby girl. She could slip away without responsibility. I couldn't blame her when she had so much grief and responsibility of her own.

Each day we gathered more information, and each day we watched our girl lose weight and grow more and more frail. During one visit, she stopped breathing while I was watching. I reached in and began flicking her hands and feet. I put my palm over her torso and gently rolled her side to side, but nothing happened. We got the attention of the nurse who rushed right over and turned her onto her back. Hannah’s chest rose and she drew a big breath. I thought I was going to burst into tears.

“Why did that happen??” I asked, incredulous.

“It’s not uncommon for preemies to just forget to breathe.” The nurse explained. “When it happens, we have to stimulate them to remind them to take a breath. We didn’t know this was a problem for this baby until you brought it to our attention.” 

My friend and I stared at each other. What next, sweet baby?! From then on, my prayers began like this, “Oh Father, please remind our girl to breathe. Please don’t let her forget!”

It was around this time that I began to question whether or not they had started feeding her.

“Oh, we would have started feeds, but we’ve run out of formula.”

I was dumbfounded. “You mean, she hasn’t been fed at all this entire time?”

“No. Until her mama comes and nurses her, or we get more formula, we can’t feed her.”

I was immediately panicked. I knew that her mama wasn’t coming for her. And by now, I was seriously doubting that a family line was coming as it was Wednesday without a single word.

“So, she’s been getting only this IV glucose? Is that enough for her??”

“Yes, it’s fine until her mama comes.”

“But,” I struggled to remain calm. “What if it’s weeks before someone comes?? Is this going to be enough?”

“Well, no.”

I countered, “I have a friend who has volunteered to share some of her breast milk. She’s nursing her own baby right now and can pump some extra for this baby.”

“Sorry, we can’t give breast milk to the baby unless it’s from her own mother. We don’t know if the woman donating milk is HIV positive.”

We went round and round. Part of me felt bad for questioning their methods. I wanted to respect them and remain as culturally sensitive as I could, but seriously, this was madness. Before we left, the nurse told us that she would double check with the doctor regarding the breast milk and get back to us. We went right to the store and bought formula. Feeding hours were over, so we headed home with it.

If there is any place in this story that I could do over, it would be here. I would have taken that formula right back to the nursery and put it into the hands of the nurse. But I don’t know anything about preemie care, and so far, they were answering all of our questions and being so patient with us. I didn’t want to bully my way in and burn our bridges. Plus, I was convinced that if I carried breast milk in and presented it to them the next day, they wouldn’t be able to say no. 

{Romans 8:26-27} In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.

I spent a long time on my knees on Wednesday night, asking the Lord to intervene on our behalf, to give us wisdom, and to remind our girl to breathe! When I got up, I felt an incredible peace flood over me. I felt my Father’s presence, and there was tremendous relief and joy with Him. I didn't know what to expect over the next few days, but I felt sure that the Lord would lead in sovereignty. And I now knew exactly what to say and how to proceed with those seeking information about Hannah. I went into the next day feeling confident that the Creator was championing for Hannah, and for me as well.

When we walked into the nursery that next day, we were approached by the doctor overseeing Hannah’s care. Up to this point, we hadn’t seen her and the questions we had were always met with, “We’ll have to ask to the doctor.” I was so thankful to see her there and willing to talk through things with us. I believe this was God’s hand at work because the doctor normally made her rounds in the morning, but on this day, she happened to be there in time for our arrival.  

My first question was would they let us give Hannah the breast milk that I had with me? I held up the little plastic bag to show her. I emphasized that the milk had come from a missionary woman who was nursing her own baby. I felt ridiculous defending facts about my friend; things like, “We know she doesn’t have HIV! She’s healthy!” But still the answer was, no. The doctor affirmed us in saying that she knew breast milk was the very best for Hannah, yet the milk still couldn’t be given to her. In a last-ditch effort to provide something beneficial for Hannah, I asked the doctor if I could hold her skin-to-skin when we came back the following evening. She agreed and we left. I could only imagine what she thought of me. I decided it didn’t matter.

So on that following evening, we brought the formula. That sweet girl was finally going to be fed. I prayed and prayed and prayed that it wouldn’t make her sick. I knew that diarrhea could easily take her life, weak as she was. So, on that Thursday night, I chose clothing best suited to undressing just enough to hold Hannah right up against my chest. I think the nurse was a little frustrated by my request, but she helped me get settled in with Hannah. I was allowed to hold her for about forty-five minutes. She squirmed and squeaked the entire time. I whispered truths about her Heavenly Father in her ear. I told her how precious she was, and I quoted Isaiah 26:3 to her. “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you.” Perhaps I was quoting this to my own heart, but I wanted her to hear a gentle voice telling her that she was not abandoned, but that she was loved. 

When my forty-five minutes were up, I presented the formula to the nurse and asked if she could please start feeds. It was taken, and while we didn’t actually ever see her being fed, we were told that they would start that very night. We were all but chased out of the nursery. The feeding hour was over and almost all of the other mamas had gone.

I left that night feeling the peace that only comes from my Father, and again, relief that I had had the opportunity at last to hold Hannah. I prayed that the Lord would multiply that short time 100-fold and that it would be enough for the healing and development she needed. When I got home, I looked at all the pictures I had taken of her. I was startled to see how much weight she had lost. She was now a skeleton of the baby she had been on Saturday. I fell asleep in prayer for her.

On Friday evening, we headed into town again, listening the radio, and talking about our day and how anxious we were to see Hannah. I paused outside of the nursery door to take a picture of the mountains, beautifully clouded in rain. When we stepped through the door, we were met by a nurse. She told us that Hannah had died only two hours earlier. My friend and I looked at each other. This reality was never far from our minds, and while it didn’t come as a complete shock, it was heartbreaking.

“Can we see her?” I asked.

We slowly walked over to where she still lay on the hot water bottle in the broken incubator. She was gray and still. There was a piece of plastic taped into her mouth where they had tried to intubate her. She was too little, they said. She was sick with a cold, they said. I wanted to know if they had even tried to feed her, but I didn’t ask. It didn’t matter anymore. I could barely contain my tears. They were building, threatening to spill over. My eyes hurt from holding them back. We made arrangements to come the following morning for her body. Of course, this too needed to be cleared with the doctor. We quietly left. I wondered what the people thought of two white women leaving the hospital with such emotion. The security guards, who knew us from our frequent visits, shouted their goodbyes. We barely turned around to wave. What could we say to explain our downcast faces?

It wasn’t until I was home and my door was closed that I sobbed. Oh my poor Hannah. How could I love someone so much in such a short time? The Lord had asked me to keep watch care over her and I had accepted responsibility for her tiny personhood. In six short days I had loved deeply and lost greatly.

The prayers were not yet ended, though. I exchanged prayers of healing for prayers of grace. I asked the Lord to grant us grace through the hospital staff that we might have her body for burial. I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t let us have her. I might have collapsed into a puddle right there in the nursery.

Our drive in the next morning was solemn and quiet. When we got upstairs to the nursery, we were again met at the door. The nurse pointed out where they had laid Hannah. They had prepared her for us. There were no questions asked; we weren’t even required to sign any documents for her. She was completely bundled up in her blanket; face not showing. Across her lay the paper that hung from her bed all week. It read “ABANDONED BABY.” Underneath the bold, black marker, in blue pen were written the words, "Baby Hope." The nursery staff had given her a name of their own. I was touched to see their tenderness in such a heart-wrenching environment. We thanked them for caring for her, scooped her and her things up, and left.

I stopped right outside the door and began digging through her bag, looking for her blue hat. She had worn the blue hat all week, but the nursery staff had changed her into a pink one. I desperately wanted to find the blue hat. Months ago, when I was home in the States, a friend from church gave me a bag full of sweet baby hats that she had crocheted. She pulled one out of the bag and said, “This one didn’t turn out quite right. It’s way too small, but it’s cute so I threw it in here anyway.” On Saturday, when Hannah first arrived, I ran to my bag and pulled out the tiny, blue hat and slipped it over Hannah’s head. It fit like it was made just for her. God is the God who sees. Back when my friend was crocheting hats, she didn’t know that the He was preparing one for Hannah. From the beginning, it served as a symbol of His provision and love.

The nurse saw me frantically searching for something and came out to see what we were missing. I explained about the blue hat and that we wanted to take it with us. She walked over and dug through the dirty laundry. Out she pulled the tiny, blue hat. 

When we got back to the mission centre, we made plans for a little service later in the afternoon, and then I turned toward my house with Hannah in my arms. It was an unsettling feeling to be carrying a dead infant down the road. I felt exposed and I was anxious to get inside. But once I was inside, the silence was equally as unsettling. I had brought the hospital home with me. Up to this point, the two worlds of the ward and my home had remained apart. Now they collided, and I didn't know what to do with myself. The Father knew my heart, and out of my window I could see a dear friend on her way up the road. I had called her the night before to tell her about Hannah, and she was on her way to see me.

She and I sat in my living room and looked at Hannah’s little body and talked about her short life. Then we slowly unwrapped her from her bulky blankets to get a closer look at her. I was surprised to find her dressed. The nursery staff had taken great care to dress her in not one, but two, of the outfits I had brought with me on our first trip to see her. Again, I was touched by the care they took to prepare her for us. She was completely swallowed up in a pair of loud, collared, yellow-flowered footy pajamas, and beneath that, cream jammies with pink bunnies. On her hands were white lace mitts that tied at the wrist. As a body decomposes, fluid leaks from the orifices, so the nursery staff pushed cotton up each of Hannah’s nostrils and in her mouth. She was a site to behold. Yet there was something necessary and relieving about looking at her. 

I laid her on the floor and slowly undressed her. My doula friend and I had decided that she should be buried in the tiny blue hat, and wrapped only in her blanket. She entered the world simply. It seemed silly to gild the lily now. Once I had her down to her diaper, I could see a bulky bandage on one leg. When I unwrapped it, I found a huge, weeping wound from one of her IVs. Oh baby girl. Had she been in pain, I wondered?

When the time came, I carried her back down the road to my friend’s house. Her dad was finishing up the headstone for her grave. He took such care in making it look beautiful. Her little coffin was made from the remains of a ping-pong table and we could have fit three of her inside, but it was nice to have something made just for her.

God’s timing was perfect. Most of the people on our mission centre were away for a sports tournament, so it was quiet and we could walk to the little cemetery outside the fence without any questions. My friend’s dad led the way, carrying Hannah in her coffin, with the rest of us trailing behind. The cemetery lay down in a little area where the grass is green and soft, and shaded by tall trees. The grave was prepared and a short message was given about the incredible hope of eternity and life with Christ. I asked that we read Psalm 139. We took some last looks at Hannah, and then buried her. We walked home, sorrowful but thankful for the closure the little service brought.

I have a love-hate relationship with the hospital. I love being there, holding and loving on women and their babies. I’ve written before about the privilege it is to be able to provide comfort, and at the very least, a hand to hold in the vulnerable moments of new life and quiet death. But I hate that death. And I hate the sin the precipitates it. Not once have I been angry with the doctors or the nurses, or even Hannah’s mama, but I have been angry at the system in which they operate. The system that marginalizes and shames women. The system that values procedure and rules over life; those rules that denied Hannah nourishment. The system that accepts dishonesty and theft by those in power, making it impossible to purchase necessary medical supplies and provide good care for the sick and dying; consequences that trickle down and affect even the smallest lives.

I’ve played the scenarios over and over in my mind. Had I asked about feedings earlier, we would have known they didn’t have formula and could have provided it sooner. Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe Hannah died because a nurse failed to stimulate her during one of her apnea episodes, or maybe she had trouble in her bowel or brain. I’ll never know. But this I do know: God saw and God grieved.

It has been a couple of months since my time with Hannah. Although the initial grief has passed, I'm unsure how to articulate my feelings. I do know that since the beginning of time, God foresaw Hannah's life and how it would impact mine. I believe He gently led me into the ward that day, and holding my hand He said, "Okay daughter of mine, here we go." I cannot doubt that having been led so well through trial, that my Lord would now abandoned me to sort out the aftermath of emotion. His Word says that He is the "Founder and Perfector of our faith." He that gives the faith to trust, will increase it and perfect it as I walk this earth with Him. It was only a week or so before I met Hannah that I read these words.

{1 John 5:11} And this is the testimony, that God gave us eternal life, and this life is in his Son.

I paused in my reading and literally gasped; the truth of this passage striking me afresh. My life is forfeit to my God. He has purchased it with His blood. Therefore it is only through Him that I have life. I must renounce any claim I have on it, because it's not my own. It has been purchased at great cost. This means I must die to self and trustingly accept anything He brings to me. Those words, that I'd read countless times before, were suddenly so real in their application. I could not have known then how the Lord was preparing me.

Hannah's life, death, and the surrounding events were ultimately about His glory. All things that He orchestrates or allows in our lives are about making Himself known. It's the person who doesn't know His character that becomes bitter in trial. If we know Him as the Sovereign King, we can walk in trust. And even when we falter, we can look to Him as the Perfecter of that trust, full of grace for His weak children.

{2 Corinthians 4:6-7,10} For God who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us...always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.

The power to overcome darkness is not ours. It is our God's. Our Shepherd guides and prepares His children for trials of many kinds. His is the only light that can pierce through the darkest of places, and He has given us, His broken pots, the light that comes through a knowledge of His glory as shown in His Son, Jesus Christ. This truth should cause us to rejoice! His heart is to reveal His mighty character, and lead us into an ever-deepening fellowship and unmatched joy with Him. Embrace hardship. It brings us nearer to our Savior in ways that we cannot imagine. 

Hannah’s mama never got to know her. I imagine she’s wondering what happened to her baby girl. I wonder if she went back to look for her? Will she forever wonder whether or not she lived, who cared for her, and what she’s like? Pray for that woman. I cannot imagine what haunts her thoughts. My heart aches for her loss, which is far greater than mine. Pray that the Lord will claim her life for His own. 

I am a creature of hope. I was adopted by Christ into His family. My burden of sin and hopelessness has been lifted from me. My slate has not only been wiped clean, but completely covered in the righteous writings of my Savior. My soul has been rescued and I am being refashioned into the likeness of my Rescuer, day by day. The joy of His goodness and my new life fill me to overflowing. Hannah is a reminder of that redemption and hope.

Invest fully.

Love deeply.

Hold loosely.

Hannah Hope

13 August-19 August, 2016