“Even if we don’t get to bring Samuel home, we still love him.”
If there is nothing else Micah remembers about this journey, I hope he remembers the truth of the words he voiced just yesterday.
There is no greater testimony to the tenacity of this love than my wife. Through her tears, she has made a home for Sam. This will be the only home he will know; soon, his life will end. And then the sacrifice she has made may not be obvious. He will no longer be here; the interior motions within her body will be gone. His visible presence will be absent and there will be no physical presence left to be the tangible object of our love.
Does this alter the gift she has given to Samuel? Does this change the love she pours into him?
Yes; it has made it more significant. She loves one who is already dying, whose life is incompatible with life. She loves one who is incapable of loving her. Her love is enfleshed: it is a sacrifice of her own body to sustain his own which is feeble and already broken. Her love is a witness to his value, a response to a value inherent in his nature, and an affirmation of his life, of all life, as a gift. Her love perfectly embodies Love even if the only signs of this love will be barely decipherable ultrasound images or pictures of an already lifeless frame.
Without comprehending the fullness of what he is witnessing, Micah is seeing what love requires of us in the way she is loving Samuel and in the way she has been loving him since long before he was born.
And I am both a spectator and participant. I am a husband who sees in my wife a remarkable love that is both pure and gritty at the same time. I am a father who sees in my Micah a seed of my wife’s courageous love; I pray that it will take root and grow and that it won’t be choked out by the loss of his brother. And I am a father who loves his son Samuel even if I won’t get to bring him home; I pray that he can receive this love in some form.