Monday. The Newborn Room. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed to be assigned to the newborn room all morning. This cut down my chances of a delivery in half. During my quite time I thought about my attitude towards my station that day. I was so broken by my selfishness. I couldn’t believe that I actually had come to think that the labour room was actually about deliveries. I asked for forgiveness for my selfishness, and was reminded that His mercies are new every morning. So, I went to the labour ward, and walked into the hot, stuffy newborn room proudly. And you know… there was not a single baby born that morning. But, I had one of my best days in two months. I cleaned the receiving trays, I scrubbed the metal beds, wiped the cob webs down from the surfaces they had begun to take over, and attempted to remove the blood splatters all over the walls. It was a wonderful morning, I sang as I scrubbed, and sweat poured from my face as the heaters were still on to warm the absent babies. I spent some time praying in the new born room as well. We had had three still borns that morning, and all of the little loves were still in the room. It’s strange how one can grow accepting of such a horrible thing. It still breaks me, that much is certain, but I can go on singing, scrubbing… At lunch I thought about this joy that seemed to be exploding out of every part of me. I remembered the day when we were yelled at and told we couldn’t have any more deliveries. I remembered how amazing that morning was, assisting the interns and comforting mothers. I remember laughing more that morning that I ever had at the hospital. Then I realized the joy was so beautiful because it was a humble joy. It was a joy that comes from doing tasks less romantic, less desirable than most. It’s a joy that comes from choosing abundance in the small things, in the things that are seemingly unimportant. “The son of man came not to be served, but to serve.”

Despite my fears that morning of not getting a delivery, I did. There were only two women in the ward that afternoon, and both of them were having twins. “Twin gestation” is deemed high risk and usually we are not allowed to conduct such cases. However, I came into check on one of the mothers, and found my friend Paula from New Zealand getting ready to deliver the first baby. The head was crowning, so I grabbed the clip board and began to record times for her. The baby came out beautifully; a little boy. My instructor turned to me and asked if I’d like to conduct the second delivery. (The doctors had been told that we were delivering this case, but no one had come to take over, so we continued on.) The mother did such a wonderful job, and had a few minutes to rest before the next little one made his painfully beautiful journey into this world. The delivery was incredible, the doctors came into check on us, knowing that we were delivering the second baby, and they allowed us. For the first time in the Birth Attendant School’s history, we delivered both twins of a twin gestation. Jacob James, Paula’s, and Henry John, mine. I was reminded of the grace I had received that morning in my quite time and on into my time in the new born room. I was so honored to serve such a steadfast, faithful and loving God.

The rest of the week flew by, and to be honest I can hardly believe it’s over. I wonder if the next thirteen will go as fast as this one just past. If so, I will be on a plane in no time. That thought is exciting, as I am anxious to see my beautiful little niece, and at the same time it makes my stomach churn and my heart break. Every time I drive in a rickshaw, I love to watch people. Indians are such beautiful people. For the most part I have observed them to be kind, generous, and joyful. I love seeing grown men walk down the street with hands locked, or woman completely veiled in black laughing, their bhurkas fly up with the passing breeze revealing the colorful clothing underneath. I have fallen in love with this place, with these people, even with the madness. And I’ll be the first to say, some days are full of madness. On those days, depending on how sound my mind is, it’s either all I can do not to cry, or all I can do not to laugh. Oh India. How I love you. Oh Jesus, how you’ve taught me to love!