image of moderately-preterm baby in incubator— from Sharon McCutcheon via Unsplash
We often call this clear plastic box an isolette. "Isolette” is one of those brand names, like Jell-O or Kleenex or Xerox, that has come to be used generically. And we use it without thinking of how it sounds. Isolation, indeed!—but intended as incubation, for protection and growth. (Like the chicken egg incubator that so fascinated me as a child.)
Can isolation really encourage, let alone support, growth?
Incubating premature babies keeps them warm, gives them time, helps them grow the best we know. Yet incubation, in our fallen world’s intensive care nurseries, involves much isolation. When psychiatrist Curt Thompson wrote in The Soul of Desire that “most suffering occurs, somewhat counterintuitively, not as a function of pain but of isolation”, I’m pretty sure he was not thinking primarily of NICUs. But it’s what came to my mind when I read that sentence.
We peer into the incubators, through humidity condensing into mist, across the tiny, yawning gap of the clear double wall that protects small, fragile selves from our too-big, too-harsh world. We cluster their “cares” into “touch times” because touch—and sound, and light—can be traumatic.
I can’t imagine what it must be like for their parents to see and feel that. Well, I try to make myself imagine it. And then it makes so much sense that new parents would have trouble believing us when we also encourage kangaroo care: holding these once off-limits babies skin to skin, heart to heart.
We try to give babies as much “kangaroo time” as possible. Because the best incubator is a parent.
And might our Heavenly Parent be aching to “kangaroo” us all—to gather us under His wings (Luke 13:34)?
Could it be that during times when we see ourselves as isolated, we are in fact incubating and growing? God is always reaching out to us: in beauty, in brief quiet moments, and yes, even in our pain and confusion. Especially then. He wants to draw us into safety and intimacy, even in our naked, barely-diapered, completely helpless state.
These growth-connections won’t be immediately visible or recognizable, and the waiting can be painfully slow. (Neurons grow at an average speed of 2mm/day!) But our times of isolated incubation are growing times. We’ll slowly begin to see the connections as we practice looking for them.
And here is the kicker.
When I looked up “isolette”, I learned something more. Which is that, before “Isolette” was a brand name for an incubator? It was a brand name for a camera.
And there we have it: a gentle but firm reminder to stop and look. When you feel isolated, remember that although you may be hiding, you are seen. You are the focal point for the lens of an Artist who is composing, in you, a uniquely beautiful image of Himself.
Because “I” is also for “identity”.
When you’re admitted to a hospital, you get a patient ID band with your name, medical record number, date of birth. And babies’ ID bands, at least in our hospital, now include their mother’s name. Instead of “Jones, Baby Boy” they now say “Jones, Bridget’s boy” (for example.)
Even when you feel isolated, remember that you are made in God’s image, transformed in Christ’s incarnation (His having-become-human), with His name written upon you (Rev 3:12). You are loved immeasurably by the perfect Parent who sees you, holds you, and grows us all together in Himself.
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“I” is also for “inchoate.” Which reminds me that we are all in progress.
And for the voice of the “Inner Critic.” Which goes along with “Impostor Syndrome.”
(So stay tuned for “J” for “judgy.”)