Principessa

 

(D)early beloved and longed for,

my joy and crown,

stand fast in the Lord, my dearly beloved.

                                                                                    — Philippians 4:1

 

She was a sweet, lovely teenager from a small town outside Omaha, and she was deathly ill.

 

She had a heart that didn't work very well.

 

The oldest of three children, she united family and friends, hospital staff and clergy, schoolteachers and neighbors in the battle against what a sick heart will do to a young body.

 

You talk about a challenge. You talk about a burden.

 

In recent months, her steps were slower and her energy was dwindling. Her parents talked over her worsening situation with their doctors. They did diligent research, prayed, and finally decided to take a bold step.

 

They decided to take their daughter to San Francisco for a very difficult, but promising, surgery by world-renowned specialists.

 

They left, to great fanfare and exhortations. People sang, "I Got My Heart Fixed in San Francisco" and made silly posters and things. But the minute the plane took off, out came the worry beads.

 

The situation was serious. Very scary. What would be a way to help them get through this?

 

Well, the dad's coworkers hatched a wonderful plan. They fanned out and bought all kinds of little gifts: funny, sweet, inexpensive, practical and impractical ones.

 

They got together and wrapped them all up in brightly-colored papers with crazy, glittery bows that a young girl would like. They sent them off to her in one great, big box, with instructions that she could open one gift a day.

 

 

Her hospital room might have been in fabulous San Francisco, but it was decorated in Designer Drab. So when the box arrived with the tissue paper and colorful gifts and the fun and anticipation of those daily surprises, it was a big hit.

 

As the days dragged on before her surgery, she got a lift from opening a little bottle of lotion or a funky color of nail polish. One day, her feet were cold, and surprise! Her gift was a pair of embroidered footies.

 

Every day, she got a touch of love from home. Every day, she had something to look forward to, something to take her mind off what was ahead.

 

The surgery still loomed. The fear was building. A big question mark hung over her hospital bed.

 

Her parents still acted strong and confident in front of her . . . but at night, in the hotel, they would huddle close and cry a little, wondering if they were doing the right thing.

 

Every day, the girl enjoyed the attention of a whole new medical staff. This was an international teaching hospital. Faces came before her in all colors, and voices in all accents. Most had never met anyone from Nebraska, so that made her feel special.

 

One of her favorite doctors was from Italy. His bedside manner was unforgettably grand. He would come into her room, throw his hands up into the air, and call her the Italian word for princess: "Principessa! How are you today?" She loved it.

 

The day before surgery, her Italian friend had come and gone. The room was still. Feelings of fear and dread started creeping back in. She could feel herself sinking.

 

Her dad saw. He quickly brought over her gift of the day. She opened it.

 

It was a princess crown, a dimestore tiara from the folks back home. Her parents' throats tightened and their eyes filled with tears.

 

A crown for the "principessa." It linked her support network from near and far in a sweet, crazy way that defied the limits of coincidence . . . with the perfect timing that comes only from heavenly airmail.

 

She put it on, smiled at her mom and dad, and winked.

 

It was a turning point. Now that she was a principessa, she was ready. The time came. The surgery went well.

 

And on her bedpost hangs the rhinestone tiara, a souvenir. It came to her by way of friends of the Great Physician . . . the One we crown with many crowns . . . the King of Kings.