If Only the Walls Could Talk

Sometimes, when I pulled into the parking deck on the way to the NICU, I wanted to throw up. The strong wind would whistle between the towering concrete columns. Sirens wailed in the background. I’d pass the emergency spot where we frantically parked in labor. Just beyond, cars sped down Highway 280, seemingly unaware of the hospital world frozen on the hill.

Then time simultaneously passes quickly & stands still in the hospital once you enter inside. There's a mixture of people –some, on the clock for their job. Others, there for a scheduled appt.

But many? They are here by circumstance, not choice.

They have been stopped in their tracks. Future plans, canceled. Awareness of normal passing of time is gone. 

The dumbfounded shock is so real –How can this be? This can't be happening. This was not my plan. 

Yet, in this shared space of grief, shock, and waiting, they move. They walk through the parking deck. They step into the elevator. They put one foot in front of the other down the long hallways, staring into the fluorescent lights, as they grapple with their new normal.

And around them? The hum of hospital life continues. A man changes a lightbulb in the waiting room. A secretary welcomes visitors at the door. A doctor reviews patient notes before rounds. A pharmacist fills the next order.

I always think—if only the walls could talk.

I share this because awareness matters. The next time you walk into a hospital, physically or emotionally well—consider it a gift. Pause and remember for many, this place is a world of heartache, uncertainty, and survival.

But here’s the beautiful truth about our God: He is omnipresent. He is with both the secretary at the desk and the mama at the bedside. He holds every detail, every heartache, every moment.

Thank You, Father, for being near in these walls – to the ones who wait, the ones who work, and the ones who weep.