“I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get home.”

 “I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get home.”

I think about this moment often. I was alone at my doctor’s office when I learned our identical twins hearts had both stopped beating. Chris was working and I couldn’t reach him. I tried my mom and couldn’t reach her either. Feeling incredibly overwhelmed, I called a friend from church from the bathroom stall. We hadn’t known each other that long, but I knew her well enough to know I was safe to be incredibly vulnerable (and probably difficult to audibly understand). Though miles of distance stood between us, I felt less alone.

I remember the genuine empathy as her voice cracked on, “Both of them?” She wept with me. She lamented with me. She prayed for me. “Do you want me to come get you? I can leave right now.” I remember making it to where my car was parked on the roof of the parking structure and standing in the sun as she prayed over me again. We cried and prayed some more. “Don’t drive until you feel safe. I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get home.”
She did. I think of this often because it challenges me and has set the tone for this space. Even if the details of our losses may look different, I want to link arms with you. My prayer has been for this to be a space where you are wept with, prayed for, and pointed toward the hope of Jesus.

You are not alone. I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get home.

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