On the eve of the Lunar New Year holiday, I was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital due to a sudden illness. Had it not been for the holiday, I could not have brought myself to leave, knowing my young daughter would have been home alone. But with my husband off work, I felt reassured. He told me not to worry about anything at home, and I convinced myself that this hospital stay might be a kind of heaven-sent vacation.
That illusion shattered within a day. At night, nurses came and went, checking my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature, and changing my IV drip—waking me again and again. During the day, another patient in the same room kept the television blaring without pause, making even the hope of rest impossible. When she was discharged, her replacement spent the entire day shouting into her phone. I wanted to say something, but the content of her calls—disturbing and sorrowful—held my tongue. My dream of rest lay in ruins. Worse still, I missed my daughter terribly.
Is she brushing her teeth before bed? Is she staying up too late? Will Dad remember to keep the soap out of her eyes during her bath . . .?
These thoughts spun endlessly in my mind. Just then, a nurse entered to remove my IV. I had a three-hour window before the next one. With permission for a brief outing, I quickly showered and rushed home.
When I opened the door, eager to see my daughter, I was stunned into silence. My husband was cooking rice in the pressure cooker, but hadn’t attached the pressure regulator. Steam poured up to the ceiling, turning the house into a sauna. My daughter looked up, startled, and said, “Mom? What are you doing here?” Her disheveled appearance said more than words could. I quickly fixed the pressure cooker and tied up her hair.
“Mommy missed you so much. I asked the nurse if I could come home just for a little while. I’ll give you a bath and then head back to the hospital.”
I gazed at her and hugged her over and over, then began tidying up the house in a rush. I had cleaned thoroughly before being admitted, yet in no time it had fallen into disarray. Fortunately, the rice cooked well. I fed her, bathed her, and gave her a hundred lingering goodbyes before heading back.
As I headed back to the hospital, tears streamed down my face. I had only been away for a day, and yet the ache of missing her had driven me straight home. How, then, must our Heavenly Parents feel—waiting patiently, endlessly, through the long absence of their children? The mess left behind during my short absence reminded me of my own soul—how easily it becomes disordered without the presence of Heavenly Mother. I thought of Her unseen labor, Her tireless prayers, Her ceaseless care, and my heart overflowed with gratitude. And so I resolved: I will no longer be a child who brings Her pain. I will become one who gives Her strength and joy—one She can rely on without sorrow. With that vow in my heart, I quickened my steps back to the hospital, and back toward the One who never leaves me.