In His Hands

God took my mother. Was he going to take my baby too?

- Cynthia Dobbs

I SAT IN THE NEONATAL INTENSIVE care unit beside my son Obadiah’s incubator, staring at all the tubes and wires attached to his tiny body, willing him to live.

I went into labor when I was only six months pregnant. My husband, Destry, rushed me to the hospital. But my labor had progressed too far. Obadiah was born at 25 weeks—what’s considered extremely premature—weighing a mere 1 pound, 9 ounces.

Each day since, doctors would debrief us on another medical crisis. This morning, they had told us Obadiah had developed a blood infection. He had a 50-50 chance of survival.

The temperature, humidity and oxygen level in the incubator were carefully controlled to maximize his chances. But he looked so fragile, lying there in that small plastic box. I longed to pick him up and hold him close, to let him feel how much I loved him. I knew I should pray, but there were no words in me.

I wished my mother were here. She would know what to do for Obadiah, what words to pray.

My mother was a force of nature. That phrase is usually used in exaggeration. In my mother’s case, it was true. She put her heart and soul into everything she did. She said the joy of raising my younger sister, Dhivya, and me was worth every labor pain. And she was a wonderful mother. But that wasn’t all I admired her for.

She was a magistrate in the judicial service of Tamil Nadu, India, at a time when women did not hold such high positions in that country. I watched her work late many evenings, reviewing legal documents pulled from an enormous black lockbox as a police officer stood guard outside our home. She would sit beside the box and pray as she read through the documents. I asked her once why she prayed over her work. “I am bound by justice and love,” she said.