Standing outside the hospital room, I awkwardly alternated between lowering my face to the hot cup of coffee below and raising my eyes to the closed door ahead. Behind the door was the young couple who had called me in the early hours of the morning to tell me she had gone into premature labor with their third child, a son.
They had asked me to come to the hospital and pray. I came. I waited. I prayed. With their families hundreds of miles away, I became the makeshift parental nurturer, a sort of stand in for those who had loved them all of their lives.
The look on the young husband’s face as he walked toward me told me what his words did not need to say. The baby did not live. The heaviness of grief caused his shoulders to roll forward in a helpless looking curve. His…
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