A Nomad Santa Reflection
It was late. I’d been called to Labor and Delivery for what was a quiet shift, but this wasn’t routine.
I stepped into a dimly lit hospital room. No monitors, no staff buzzing about — just silence. A woman lay in the bed — asleep, or sedated — her face pale and still, her body slack from the toll of labor and heartbreak.
She had just delivered a stillborn son.
Beside her stood the father. Built like a linebacker. His hand rested on hers. His body — completely still. Not just quiet, but paralyzed in grief.Â
I didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. I simply opened my arms.
Without a word, he stepped into them.
And then… he broke.
He collapsed into my shoulder, sobbing — full, heaving sobs that came from a place deeper than pain. I held him there, steady. A silent witness to the sorrow he could no longer hold alone.
We didn’t exchange a single word. We didn’t need to.
Sometimes, what people need isn’t answers or prayers. Just a place to fall apart.
It’s a small world—and we’re all neighbors. Especially in the silence.