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During those outreaches, I kept meeting pregnant women—women who had never seen a doctor, had no prenatal care, and had no choice but to give birth at home. Some shared heartbreaking stories of losing babies because they couldn’t afford hospital care. Others were afraid of the hospitals, saying they didn’t feel safe or respected there.

We normally do not deliver premature babies at our clinic. And we definitely don’t deliver breech babies in a high-risk pregnancy. But there was no time. This little one was on her way — now.

What will he look like, will he still be beautiful missing half his head? Is there a small bit of hope that maybe we all got it wrong, or God performed a miracle, and that he will be born whole?

Where were You in COVID-19? Where were You through lockdown and pain? Where were You when we called on Your Name?

The cardboard box sat on the bed. Taped closed with a name on top I faintly recognized. But I knew what was inside. A little baby girl, about 32 weeks old in gestation, who had breathed her last.

18 years old. Estranged from family. With a partner who is controlled by drugs and controls you in unkind ways. A partner whose work is erratic and dependent on his mood. So food is erratic and housing is dismal. A newborn girl who cries. Cries. All. The. Time.

While the quarantine has been an inconvenience to us as a family, it has taken the lives of others. It has left such a wave of hunger and desperation and hopelessness. It’s bought a huge amount of fear into the community.