Gone

We saw her born. I cut her cord. We waited. We loved and thanked her birth-parents. We visited with them, ate with them, rejoiced with them. We took her from the hospital. We watched her all night. We hardly slept. We set up stations for changing and sleeping. We fed her. We changed her. We worried about germs. We held her. We prayed over her. We sang to her. We talked to her. We cleaned the stub of her umbilical cord. We memorized her changing little face: her nose, her ears, her blue eyes, her soft dark hair. She was perfect and we fell in love right away. She squeaked. She sighed. She looked at us. She snuggled. She held our fingers. She ate passionately, liked noise better than quiet, and learned to anticipate a camera's flash by the "1 - 2 - 3" that preceded it. Never had either of us been so happy.

Yesterday, we packed her things in the car. We started driving back home. I drove. Olivia sat in the back with her. We sang praises to Jesus. Every mile was joy. We stopped for lunch in Dallas and introduced her to Grampy and Marmy. We told our waitress about her. We got a phone call.

The world stopped.

We cried. We prayed. We shouted. We mourned. We pleaded. We screamed our agony in a parking lot. We died over and over. We die still. Olivia kissed her good-bye. I watched my step-mother drive away with Olivia and my dad and I drove her back. I prayed. I prayed for her. I prayed for Olivia. I prayed to keep her. I pleaded with God for her eventual salvation, that she would know Jesus no matter what happened. I wept. I moaned. I told her about Olivia and what a wonderful mother she was. I told her about Jesus. I told her about how loved she is. I poured out my soul in the back seat of our car. We had her for less than 24 hours.

I fed her. I changed her. I dressed her. I kissed her. I love her.

Then, she was... gone.