October 4, 2010
Lastnight we got a call from Julie, Chad’s sister, the newborn was worse, his nasal congestion was awful, Julie hadn’t slept, but no fever and he is eating and peeing. She asked for me. This sister, my sister, I was wanting to reach through the phone lines days prior, but big brother prays loud and demonstrative to the powers of sickness. I wring my hands for the little baby and the bend in the back of my little sister. I could feel my fist form as I wanted to know whether the doctors in a foreign land were doing everything possible. But I know our Father is listening to the prayers and to the plea’s. I join the praying, hoping that the baby’s body will fight. This time I heard her ask for me. I took the phone with a sigh, hearing the tearful cry of one of my own, it feels so unjust for some reason not to be able to do anything. Instead of crying with her I ask questions, the Martha takes over, what has been done, how is he breathing, and what is the plan. Then I hear her voice trail off… Almost like a second nature I tell her what I know to be true. That she is a good Mother, that she is doing everything she can, that she will get through this, that she needs to sleep when she can, and ask for more help. But I knew there was a hesitation in her voice. What was that? I went to bed only to be tormented and I prayed against guilt.
She feels guilty because she has had to make choices for herself that affect her child. These are the choices that twist and turn our insides out. Oh, the sanctification of child bearing, and she was getting a double shot. In a short amount of time she has had a baby, surgery, and now this sickness. I know how hard this is, the temptation to give up, to curse, to find blame, and I know that she is so familiar with her Father and His love for her. I am so confident in her. I prayed and prayed and when we awoke I felt tired, but I am sure not as tired as she is. I reach for the phone.
I can hear life, the going’s on of everyday child rearing, the oldest voicing her joy at the beauty in the day because the Moma already did so. I am thankful for this, the sorrow our children force us out of just because we are Moma’’s. There is no guilt here, no place for the enemy to swallow her up. She is the first Mary I ever really knew and came to love. The baby is still sick, our heads are still bowed, and the Lord is big enough to handle the small.
My gratitude list:
hike's with eager children
heart shaped rocks
the smell of the forest in autumn
pockets full of acorns
a friend that shares
a husband that takes teasing well
the anticipation of long Saturday morning runs
newlyweds
honeycrisp apples
my parents resolve to be missional
cigar muffled prayers
Had to push through that last one. Yup, I'm thankful.
