There are moments in life that suck the oxygen from your lungs, no matter how strong your faith is. I remember such a moment when we were driving home from Hershey one evening, when my 7th baby was just 6 months old, and my husband turned on the radio. A song came on: Safe and Sound, by Capital Cities. As I felt the air leave my chest, I was instantly transported back to when I was still pregnant, and we were at a Hershey Bears game: That same song came over the stadium speakers, and my baby danced wildly inside my womb. It was the only time through the whole game that she did so, despite there being other songs played.
Fast forward to just a few weeks later, when I ended up being induced 3.5 weeks early due to pre-E and subsequently, HELLP syndrome. My sweet baby girl was born the next day, on the feast of our Lady of Guadalupe, but within an hour after her birth, I crashed, and very nearly died. The details of our life afterward are a bit hazy, but for several months, I was very sick, and constantly worried that if I moved too much or got too stressed out, I’d have seizures or a heart attack. Slowly, I got better, though life never returned to “normal” for me.
But we were indeed safe and sound.
A few short months ago, I was walking barefoot in the cool Spring grass with that same baby girl, now 4 ½ years old, and all of the sudden she stopped and turned to me with her hand outstretched. So sweetly, she said, “take my hand, mommy, and we’ll be safe and sound,” as she led me over to the swing to sit beneath the burgundy foliage of the smoke tree. Again, the oxygen left my lungs, and a lump caught in my throat. I looked into her innocent face, realizing she had no idea what that phrase meant to me in light of our experience when she was born.
Our family had just been through a really stressful 6 month period. We had also just moved to a new house, but we weren’t sure what our path was, if we’d stay here, how things would work out. Even as I wandered in the sunshine in our new yard, laughing and playing with her, the clenching grasp of that anxiety was upon me. Her, stretching out her little hand to me, assuring me we would be safe and sound if I just put my hand in hers, was balm to my soul.
Over the years, I myself have heard that song very rarely, as I don’t listen to the radio much at all. I’m not really a fan of most secular music (or Christian music, for that matter). But I realized I’d hear this song at times when I’ve been especially worried about my children, or my health, or about life in general. It’s interesting. I think about the one line of the song which goes, “even if we’re six feet underground, I know that we’ll be safe and sound.” It makes me pause sometimes. After all, nearly dying after the birth of a child who, just weeks before, had randomly and frantically danced in my womb to this song specifically, has left me with a little suspicion that perhaps this was God’s unconventional way of reminding me that if I stick with Him, no matter what is happening to me, I will be safe and sound. Maybe precisely for the fact that I don’t listen to secular music often was how He knew it would hit me the right way. It’s little odd things like this that remind me of His perfect love and provision. Deo Gratias!
