Bringing Up Ziva
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Bringing Up Ziva" by Sandra Herrmann
"Peace with the FHP" by Timothy F. Merrill
* * * * * * * *
Bringing Up Ziva
by Sandra Herrmann
John 16:12-15
She was born early, by about 10 weeks. She was a tiny little thing, under two pounds. Her lungs weren't quite developed and she was jaundiced to boot, so instead of being in her mother's arms, she was in an isolette in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. The nurses had put soft gauze pads over her eyelids, to protect them from the brilliant bililight (a light intended to bleed away the bilirubin in her blood so the jaundice would go away). Because her lungs weren't fully developed, she was on special medications, a machine that breathed for her, and the isolette rocked gently to help her along. She was incredibly fragile and vulnerable to any infection, so both Debbie and John had to wear gloves in order to touch their daughter.
"We cannot guarantee that you will ever be able to bring her home," the doctor had said, "and even if you do, she'll need lots of therapy to learn to breathe and eat on her own." Debbie thought he was being brutal. John thought the doctor was preparing them for the inevitable death of their first child. Both of them were in shock, but they were each determined to be strong for the other, so they didn't talk about it much. Holding their emotions in check took all of their strength, so they had little left for anything else. Even choosing a name from their short list of favorites had become too difficult, so a week after she was born she still was labeled "Baby Girl Staunton."
Although she still had many problems and more tubes and wires than they could count, when the bililight was removed they gained hope and named her Ziva Marie. The nurses cautioned them not to think too far into the future, because Ziva was not only not out of the woods, things would be more like a roller coaster for the next "couple of years." It was then that John broke down and cried for over an hour. Debbie was so shocked, she left the room. She found that his tears sent her into a panic, and she couldn't stand there, not knowing what to do to comfort him. As for herself, she felt like an icicle, cold to her core.
One afternoon, Debbie was sitting next to the isolette, her hand inserted into one of the ports, holding Ziva's hand. Someone came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She thought it was one of the nurses, Carol, who had been really supportive. But when she turned around, a smile of greeting on her face, it wasn't Carol. It was a woman wearing a clerical collar.
"Hi, I'm Kelly. I'm the chaplain on this unit. I hear you've been having problems with your baby."
Debbie sat there for a moment before she started talking slowly, but Kelly didn't say anything, just nodded sympathetically. But she knew how to listen without judgment, without interrupting. Soon, Debbie was confiding in Chaplain Kelly, telling her how guilty she felt that she hadn't been able to carry the pregnancy to term, how awful it felt to not be able to cry, how afraid she was for her marriage as well as her baby. After a few hours spent with Kelly, she understood that her reaction to John's tears was pretty normal -- but her silence probably left John feeling that she blamed him for all that had happened. She didn't want John to feel that way, so she finally called him at work and asked him on a date at their favorite restaurant that night.
"You really feel that you can leave Ziva alone?" he asked her as they sat down at their restaurant table.
"She's not alone, John. I know now that I really can't change anything just sitting by her side. I don't have the expertise to keep her alive. That's up to the doctors and nurses until they say we can do more." When she saw John relax back into his chair, she could finally smile. They took a long time to eat, because they kept reaching for each other's hand.
Ziva remained in the hospital for four months. She now could come home with oxygen and a respirator. But her lungs were still compromised, so she was on a lot of medication. That meant that a catheter had to be installed in her chest so she could get injections and blood tests without sticking her with needles several times a day. And because her lungs could easily become clogged, she had to be suctioned. Pneumonia was still a constant threat.
It was harder to be home than in the hospital. Everything had to be cleaned before it touched Ziva. Everyone had to be warned not to come in if they had a cold or cough, because Ziva's fragile lungs damaged her ability to resist infections. Now either Debbie or John had to feed her by pouring formula into a hole made in her stomach, because Ziva still had not learned how to coordinate sucking and swallowing with her breathing. Everything that is automatic with a full-term baby was a chore and an obstacle for Ziva to overcome. And while in the hospital there was the chaplain and all those nurses and other parents around all the time, it was lonely at home. Even when they had visiting nurses come in to check on or care for Ziva, the nurses didn't have the time to stay and just chat. They had to do their work, answer questions Debbie and John had, and then go on to another home where another needy preemie lived.
Everything seemed tough. John was holding up better now, and Debbie had learned how to let her tears flow, but they both still felt as though someone had used sandpaper on their souls and skin. John was blessed, he said, that his expertise in programming allowed him to work at home four days every week. And Debbie was also lucky to be able to do most of her job from home as well. Sometimes they had to negotiate with each other and their employers to arrange their hours, but now that they could communicate better, they felt more comfortable doing that.
The steps they took were small each day, and it seemed to take forever for each step to become part of their lives. The respirator eventually was limited to Ziva's sleep times, because she could breathe well when she was up; but then they had to wean her off the respirator at night, which was much harder. It seemed that every step forward was followed by two steps back.
The hardest part was getting Ziva to learn how to swallow. She never had learned to suck but had continued to be fed through her stomach tube. Specialized nurses showed them how to get her to accept food being put in her mouth, but no one could make her chew and swallow until she was ready. So they tried all kinds of foods -- a variety of textures, colors, thicknesses, and flavors -- trying to tempt her into accepting each into her mouth. And as Ziva found some foods that she really liked, she would eagerly bite them, even chew them. But then they had to clean out her mouth, because she would not swallow! So they supplemented her solid foods with an enriched formula, still using the stomach tube.
"Be patient," the doctor said, "when she's ready for solid food, she'll let you know."
Ziva's parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all despaired of her ever getting the hang of swallowing. She was nearly three years old and still would not swallow solid food -- although she did all right with thickened fluids and anything from the blender. It was a step in the right direction, they told each other, and encouraged each other to be patient. She would swallow when she was ready.
As these things often go, Ziva surprised herself, not to mention everyone who was a part of her support system. A visiting nurse was feeding Ziva some applesauce and gave her a small bit of graham crackers (one of her favorite "chew" foods), and Ziva chewed it up -- and to everyone's surprise, swallowed!
A picture was taken of Ziva with a big smile on her face and posted on CaringBridge.com, where every member of the family, neighbors, church friends, coworkers, and anyone else who had been praying for Ziva got the picture with the good news. A shout of joy went up all around the country. Ziva had finally been ready! And once she was ready, she kept chewing and swallowing just as though she had been born in the usual way. And once she was ready for solid food, she began to grow and develop, and now at age four she has caught up to height and weight guidelines for her age group.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Peace with the FHP
by Timothy F. Merrill
Romans 5:1-5
This text includes a reference to all three persons of the Trinity. It also quickly includes references to some of the major themes of the Christian faith, like justification, faith, peace, and love.
I'm interested in the phrase "peace with God." What does that mean? Was I at some point not at peace with God, or God was not at peace with me? Like I was at war with God?
The verse is not talking about having the peace of God, but being at peace with God. Big difference. To explore this further, let me tell you about Pat Thomason.
Thomason gets up in the morning to go to work in St. Augustine, Florida. He puts on his jeans, shirts, and orange hardhat, an orange reflective vest, and heads for the highway. You'd think he was working construction.
No, not working construction. You can figure that out when he pulls a tripod out of the trunk of his car, and sets a surveying instrument on top of it, screwing it down firmly. Then he positions the equipment so that it is peering down the shoulder of the highway. After taking an initial sighting, he signals to coworkers that he's ready to proceed.
I've often wondered just what those surveyors are working on. It's a science that's beyond my ability to understand. Now watch Thomason closely. If you were peering over his shoulder, you would see him look into the sexton, or whatever it is. On his little screen, there's a red laser dot. It is trained on an oncoming vehicle.
That's strange. Thomason pulls a trigger and a number pops up: 81. Thomason then snaps on his walkie-talkie and speaks to one of his coworkers: "Maroon Honda Civic, left lane, Georgia plates, doing 81."
Uh-oh. It's Officer Thomason. About a quarter mile down the road, a Florida Highway Patrol cop on a motorcycle eases on to the highway, flashes his lights, and pulls the hapless driver of the Honda over. The man is caught dead to rights. It's a $159 fine, and had the road been in a cone zone, the fine would've been double: $318.
Sneaky, but effective. Thomason is part of a new initiative called Operation Hardhat, an attempt by the FHP to flush out speeders in construction zones. The FHP wants drivers to be aware of this sting, so that when they enter a construction zone, they'll never be sure whether the guys in hardhats are guys in hardhats or FHP with laser speed guns. The Operation Hardhat officers hide out in dump trucks, peer around road graders, and pretend to be surveyors.
Now, how does the driver of the Honda Civic with the Georgia plates get peace with the FHP? He appears in court, or he mails in his fine. Then the State of Florida is at peace with him, and he with it. End of story.
When Paul says we have peace with God, he is making a statement of law, a juridical assessment of our condition before God. The fine has been paid. There are no outstanding judgments against us. We're free to live in obedience to God, and let the Holy Spirit pour his love into our hearts.
That's a pretty good peace.
from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series IV, Cycle C (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 2003), pp. 84-85.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 26, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Bringing Up Ziva" by Sandra Herrmann
"Peace with the FHP" by Timothy F. Merrill
* * * * * * * *
Bringing Up Ziva
by Sandra Herrmann
John 16:12-15
She was born early, by about 10 weeks. She was a tiny little thing, under two pounds. Her lungs weren't quite developed and she was jaundiced to boot, so instead of being in her mother's arms, she was in an isolette in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. The nurses had put soft gauze pads over her eyelids, to protect them from the brilliant bililight (a light intended to bleed away the bilirubin in her blood so the jaundice would go away). Because her lungs weren't fully developed, she was on special medications, a machine that breathed for her, and the isolette rocked gently to help her along. She was incredibly fragile and vulnerable to any infection, so both Debbie and John had to wear gloves in order to touch their daughter.
"We cannot guarantee that you will ever be able to bring her home," the doctor had said, "and even if you do, she'll need lots of therapy to learn to breathe and eat on her own." Debbie thought he was being brutal. John thought the doctor was preparing them for the inevitable death of their first child. Both of them were in shock, but they were each determined to be strong for the other, so they didn't talk about it much. Holding their emotions in check took all of their strength, so they had little left for anything else. Even choosing a name from their short list of favorites had become too difficult, so a week after she was born she still was labeled "Baby Girl Staunton."
Although she still had many problems and more tubes and wires than they could count, when the bililight was removed they gained hope and named her Ziva Marie. The nurses cautioned them not to think too far into the future, because Ziva was not only not out of the woods, things would be more like a roller coaster for the next "couple of years." It was then that John broke down and cried for over an hour. Debbie was so shocked, she left the room. She found that his tears sent her into a panic, and she couldn't stand there, not knowing what to do to comfort him. As for herself, she felt like an icicle, cold to her core.
One afternoon, Debbie was sitting next to the isolette, her hand inserted into one of the ports, holding Ziva's hand. Someone came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She thought it was one of the nurses, Carol, who had been really supportive. But when she turned around, a smile of greeting on her face, it wasn't Carol. It was a woman wearing a clerical collar.
"Hi, I'm Kelly. I'm the chaplain on this unit. I hear you've been having problems with your baby."
Debbie sat there for a moment before she started talking slowly, but Kelly didn't say anything, just nodded sympathetically. But she knew how to listen without judgment, without interrupting. Soon, Debbie was confiding in Chaplain Kelly, telling her how guilty she felt that she hadn't been able to carry the pregnancy to term, how awful it felt to not be able to cry, how afraid she was for her marriage as well as her baby. After a few hours spent with Kelly, she understood that her reaction to John's tears was pretty normal -- but her silence probably left John feeling that she blamed him for all that had happened. She didn't want John to feel that way, so she finally called him at work and asked him on a date at their favorite restaurant that night.
"You really feel that you can leave Ziva alone?" he asked her as they sat down at their restaurant table.
"She's not alone, John. I know now that I really can't change anything just sitting by her side. I don't have the expertise to keep her alive. That's up to the doctors and nurses until they say we can do more." When she saw John relax back into his chair, she could finally smile. They took a long time to eat, because they kept reaching for each other's hand.
Ziva remained in the hospital for four months. She now could come home with oxygen and a respirator. But her lungs were still compromised, so she was on a lot of medication. That meant that a catheter had to be installed in her chest so she could get injections and blood tests without sticking her with needles several times a day. And because her lungs could easily become clogged, she had to be suctioned. Pneumonia was still a constant threat.
It was harder to be home than in the hospital. Everything had to be cleaned before it touched Ziva. Everyone had to be warned not to come in if they had a cold or cough, because Ziva's fragile lungs damaged her ability to resist infections. Now either Debbie or John had to feed her by pouring formula into a hole made in her stomach, because Ziva still had not learned how to coordinate sucking and swallowing with her breathing. Everything that is automatic with a full-term baby was a chore and an obstacle for Ziva to overcome. And while in the hospital there was the chaplain and all those nurses and other parents around all the time, it was lonely at home. Even when they had visiting nurses come in to check on or care for Ziva, the nurses didn't have the time to stay and just chat. They had to do their work, answer questions Debbie and John had, and then go on to another home where another needy preemie lived.
Everything seemed tough. John was holding up better now, and Debbie had learned how to let her tears flow, but they both still felt as though someone had used sandpaper on their souls and skin. John was blessed, he said, that his expertise in programming allowed him to work at home four days every week. And Debbie was also lucky to be able to do most of her job from home as well. Sometimes they had to negotiate with each other and their employers to arrange their hours, but now that they could communicate better, they felt more comfortable doing that.
The steps they took were small each day, and it seemed to take forever for each step to become part of their lives. The respirator eventually was limited to Ziva's sleep times, because she could breathe well when she was up; but then they had to wean her off the respirator at night, which was much harder. It seemed that every step forward was followed by two steps back.
The hardest part was getting Ziva to learn how to swallow. She never had learned to suck but had continued to be fed through her stomach tube. Specialized nurses showed them how to get her to accept food being put in her mouth, but no one could make her chew and swallow until she was ready. So they tried all kinds of foods -- a variety of textures, colors, thicknesses, and flavors -- trying to tempt her into accepting each into her mouth. And as Ziva found some foods that she really liked, she would eagerly bite them, even chew them. But then they had to clean out her mouth, because she would not swallow! So they supplemented her solid foods with an enriched formula, still using the stomach tube.
"Be patient," the doctor said, "when she's ready for solid food, she'll let you know."
Ziva's parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all despaired of her ever getting the hang of swallowing. She was nearly three years old and still would not swallow solid food -- although she did all right with thickened fluids and anything from the blender. It was a step in the right direction, they told each other, and encouraged each other to be patient. She would swallow when she was ready.
As these things often go, Ziva surprised herself, not to mention everyone who was a part of her support system. A visiting nurse was feeding Ziva some applesauce and gave her a small bit of graham crackers (one of her favorite "chew" foods), and Ziva chewed it up -- and to everyone's surprise, swallowed!
A picture was taken of Ziva with a big smile on her face and posted on CaringBridge.com, where every member of the family, neighbors, church friends, coworkers, and anyone else who had been praying for Ziva got the picture with the good news. A shout of joy went up all around the country. Ziva had finally been ready! And once she was ready, she kept chewing and swallowing just as though she had been born in the usual way. And once she was ready for solid food, she began to grow and develop, and now at age four she has caught up to height and weight guidelines for her age group.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Peace with the FHP
by Timothy F. Merrill
Romans 5:1-5
This text includes a reference to all three persons of the Trinity. It also quickly includes references to some of the major themes of the Christian faith, like justification, faith, peace, and love.
I'm interested in the phrase "peace with God." What does that mean? Was I at some point not at peace with God, or God was not at peace with me? Like I was at war with God?
The verse is not talking about having the peace of God, but being at peace with God. Big difference. To explore this further, let me tell you about Pat Thomason.
Thomason gets up in the morning to go to work in St. Augustine, Florida. He puts on his jeans, shirts, and orange hardhat, an orange reflective vest, and heads for the highway. You'd think he was working construction.
No, not working construction. You can figure that out when he pulls a tripod out of the trunk of his car, and sets a surveying instrument on top of it, screwing it down firmly. Then he positions the equipment so that it is peering down the shoulder of the highway. After taking an initial sighting, he signals to coworkers that he's ready to proceed.
I've often wondered just what those surveyors are working on. It's a science that's beyond my ability to understand. Now watch Thomason closely. If you were peering over his shoulder, you would see him look into the sexton, or whatever it is. On his little screen, there's a red laser dot. It is trained on an oncoming vehicle.
That's strange. Thomason pulls a trigger and a number pops up: 81. Thomason then snaps on his walkie-talkie and speaks to one of his coworkers: "Maroon Honda Civic, left lane, Georgia plates, doing 81."
Uh-oh. It's Officer Thomason. About a quarter mile down the road, a Florida Highway Patrol cop on a motorcycle eases on to the highway, flashes his lights, and pulls the hapless driver of the Honda over. The man is caught dead to rights. It's a $159 fine, and had the road been in a cone zone, the fine would've been double: $318.
Sneaky, but effective. Thomason is part of a new initiative called Operation Hardhat, an attempt by the FHP to flush out speeders in construction zones. The FHP wants drivers to be aware of this sting, so that when they enter a construction zone, they'll never be sure whether the guys in hardhats are guys in hardhats or FHP with laser speed guns. The Operation Hardhat officers hide out in dump trucks, peer around road graders, and pretend to be surveyors.
Now, how does the driver of the Honda Civic with the Georgia plates get peace with the FHP? He appears in court, or he mails in his fine. Then the State of Florida is at peace with him, and he with it. End of story.
When Paul says we have peace with God, he is making a statement of law, a juridical assessment of our condition before God. The fine has been paid. There are no outstanding judgments against us. We're free to live in obedience to God, and let the Holy Spirit pour his love into our hearts.
That's a pretty good peace.
from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series IV, Cycle C (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 2003), pp. 84-85.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 26, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
