He was gently lifted — his small, fragile, purple body — and carefully placed against my chest. A chest that somehow rose and fell with ease, despite the weight of my broken heart. My eyes brimmed with the tension required to hold back tears that felt unstoppable. His face was enveloped by wires connecting him to machines that beeped, flickered, and emitted alarming sounds when his tiny lungs struggled to perform their basic function.
The tumult my first pregnancy caused in my body made having another child seem unlikely. Yet, there he was, a miracle in his profound unlikelihood. Minutes morphed into hours, hours into days that sometimes felt like they could be his last. Mornings brought rounds where respiratory failures turned his skin navy blue, and nights where his heartbeat was nearly imperceptible. The dramatic weight loss kept us from taking him home.
Each hour spent holding my son, hoping my voice and warmth would stave off the inevitable, I was acutely aware of the battle unfolding around us. Life was fighting to survive against incredible odds. Babies no larger than my palm had entire teams of medical professionals rallying around them, waiting for the moment to jump into action when their tiny hearts grew weary. Each of these little souls clung to existence like the lone blade of grass breaking through concrete — resolute yet vulnerable, prone to destruction from a careless step.
When we stepped out of that fragile world each night, we entered one fraught with turmoil. The fear of inadvertently introducing COVID-19 into the NICU was paralyzing. We wore masks, isolated ourselves, and scrubbed our hands until our skin burned. A simple cold — a runny nose you hoped was just allergies, a sore throat you blamed on seasonal change, or a cough you attributed to morning hoarseness — could devastate these children. The thought of COVID was terrifying.
My social media feed, once filled with joy and updates from loved ones, became a torrent of conspiracy theories and misinformation. There were protests against masks and accusations of government overreach. I encountered angry rants from fellow Christians proclaiming that a “virus that only affects the elderly and vulnerable” was being used to strip them of their rights. One relative even declared, “Welcome to communist China; why are we locked down over a virus with a 97% survival rate?”
My heart shattered. What she truly implied was that my child, the 3%, was an acceptable sacrifice for her to host Thanksgiving with all its past grandeur, for her to don her Sunday best and step into a packed church. That 3% was a small price to pay for her comfort and privilege. I cried, prayed, and then remembered something important.
Jesus spoke of the vulnerable as “the least of these,” instructing us to seek, care for, and protect them, even at great personal cost. We are called to serve them with the same unconditional love that Christ showed on the cross. However, vulnerability isn’t always visible.
Beyond the obvious fragility of old age, many individuals face significant vulnerabilities hidden beneath seemingly able bodies. Poverty, homelessness, and disenfranchisement obstruct access to healthcare, nutrition, and overall well-being. Those battling chronic health conditions, recovering from major surgeries, or raising families while facing critical health issues are vulnerable as well. This includes my parents, who dedicate their lives to care for others, and friends who manage their families while living with severe health issues. The life of every person, whether a tiny baby in an incubator or an elderly individual, holds equal value.
As Christians, we’ve encountered pandemics before. Author Brian Stiller highlights moments in history when Christians set aside comfort and risked everything to care for the afflicted. Renowned biblical scholar N.T. Wright referenced Martin Luther’s guidance during public health crises, emphasizing the importance of not spreading infection, which is an act of love toward our neighbors.
Yet, our current response leaves much to be desired. We have grown so accustomed to our comforts that we have lost sight of real suffering. A century of prosperity has distanced us from the “least of these,” and in North America, where our political ideologies dominate culture, true religious persecution is seldom faced by Christians. If your identity as a follower of Christ leans more on traditions than on Christ himself, it’s easy to confuse inconvenience with oppression.
While free will is one of God’s greatest gifts, it can also lead to harm if misused. One of the most significant challenges of the Christian experience is to lay aside our privileges and adopt a servant’s heart, as instructed in Philippians 2:4: “Let each of you look not only to his own interests but also to the interests of others.”
Your human nature often clashes with the biblical call to emulate Christ. The greatest love is shown by those who lay down their lives for others (John 15:13). Christ made the ultimate sacrifice by giving his life. The changes you are being asked to make are far less daunting:
- Wash your hands.
- Wear a mask.
- Maintain social distance.
- Stay home when necessary.
It’s really not that hard. So let’s do better, together.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt letter, the author reflects on the struggles faced during their child’s time in a NICU during the pandemic, urging fellow Christians to embody compassion and care for the vulnerable. The piece emphasizes the importance of recognizing the value of every life and calls for a collective effort to protect the most fragile among us, reminding readers that the sacrifices asked in times of crisis are minimal compared to the greater love exemplified by Christ.
Keyphrase:
Christian compassion during a pandemic
Tags:
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