It’s amazing how the cracked walls and worn out chairs of a pediatric surgical waiting room can give way to the holiest of ground.

The stone floors Cathedral; consecrated by hard steps of anxious parents.

Tears on tired eyes, prayers on their lips.

Muffled sounds of Arabic, Hebrew, Russian, English prayer mingle in the air like smoke in a crowded pub.

Yes, this is place is charged with Holy.
I’m not particularly worried about my daughter who is inside, away from me, in the tight arms of general anesthesia.

Hers is minor- a “no biggie”‘ of orthopedic surgeries.

She’s a strong girl, a healthy girl, she was calm and relaxed all day; the procedure is simple and straight forward,  Please GD.

It’s going to be smooth and easy. It’s going to be totally fine.
Still, out here in this revival tent waiting room

I cry and I pray as if I’m in the major leagues of worry.

I’m not worried- but the tears are here anyway. This hospital pulses with a steady hum of fear and dread – so thick you can smell it.

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