The night after Christmas, Brad and I had checked into the hospital, answering questions from nurses in between contractions that came faster and faster. I didn’t know yet about the girl—the one who was admitted that same day. The girl from India who was gang-raped by several men on a bus, her ordeal becoming international news as protesters spilled into the streets.
Badly injured, she’d come to Singapore to medical treatment, to the same hospital where I was getting ready to give birth to my third Singaporean child.
This third child of mine and my second baby boy was born quickly—though not quickly enough with all that excruciating pain. And I spent the next couple of days cuddling with my newborn, thanking God for my healthy baby, enjoying the hospital’s quality medical care. And watching the news of the Indian girl.
A couple days later, I beamed as I carried my bundle out of the hospital and into the waiting taxi to take us back to the place we were staying.
“Ahh, such joy, a bundle of joy,” the driver gushed.
Born in Singapore to Indian parents, he talked almost nonstop, his chatter turning quickly from the joys of parenthood to the horrors of real Indian life.
He had opinions, about how women are treated there. How the woman down the hall had actually been wealthy enough for people to pay attention, and to have a chance at good treatment. How other poor village girls get raped and murdered all the time, their bodies throw into the streets as trash. No one caring. Nothing done.
I held tight to my snuggly son as the horrible outside world pressed into my heart.
The next day, I listened to the news. Of how the girl had died in her hospital room, even as my son began to live.
And I prayed.
That my son would be part of the solution. That he would care about more than success and wealth and gain. That he would see the hurt of the women and children who live down the hall. Or next door. Or on the other side of the world.
And that someday, he would be part of bringing more life into the world.