My daughter is a walking miracle. By all rights she should have been dead at least twice over. And she has the scars stretching across her abdomen to prove it.
It’s been six months since her body last tried to die, three months since the last time she was admitted to the hospital, and today she’s one of the top swimmers for her team and a straight A student.
I had a friend ask me how I was doing.
I should be fine. But I’m not.
And I won’t lie. It sucks (present and past tense). It sucks knowing your kid was so close. It sucks knowing she might not be out of the woods yet. It sucks knowing that the line between alive and dead is so very thin…especially when it’s your child. It sucks to be losing hope.
I’m better, but I’m not better…at least not yet.
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And therein lies the difference between today and six months (and five, four, and three months) ago when we were in the hospital AGAIN.
The difference is the acknowledgment of hope—that there is another side. That there is a time where I’ll be better enough to look back and not cry.
My “not yet” is acknowledgement of hope and anticipation of a time when the hurt will be less, the fear will be less. Even while acknowledging that we may not be done yet.
Let me be blunt. I do not need to be fixed and there are no clear-cut answers. The “answers” are too simple to be helpful and the fix only covers the festering soreness.
Just saying the words “we may not be done”, brings tears to my eyes and makes my knees buckle. I don’t know if I could do it again. But I said that after all five hospital visits. Every. Single. One. And yet I did.
It seems faith is less simple and more dangerous than I bargained for. I used to be able to close my eyes and say it won’t happen to my kids, my house, my life. I used to be able to believe we’d be safe.
But now I know safe is a lie and it might not even be what we really want. I just don’t quite know how it all works yet. But I think God’s more interested in the seeking and the questions than my pretending to know it all.
So I’m not better quite yet. And that’s okay with me.
Your honesty and rawness are broken and beautiful. Thank you for sharing and for being real. 😊
Absolutely. And I’m so glad we ran into each other on the 9th floor of the hospital. It’s been fabulous to connect.
My husband had some serious medical issues stemming from a fall from a ladder almost exactly 2 years ago, and it’s definitely taken a lot of processing to come to terms with what happened, and what could have happened but did not. Last Christmas I was militant about getting all the special traditions done and checked off the list as soon as humanly possible, so if another crisis hit we would still have those memories. This year I’m back to my usual procrastinate-y self, so I guess that means I’m better? Maybe? I’ll go with it.
Thank you for sharing. Continued prayer for you and your family.
Procrastination for the win! 😉
In all seriousness, I find it interesting how we all face crisis differently. I’m still so exhausted that I’m letting nearly everything slide a bit. BUT I’m ok with that. I don’t know that I have another choice though!
Dear Janyre,
Thank you for being honest in the midst of life. I pray that each ray of hope hits your eye at just the right time to keep you upright and knowing you are held closely. His arms are there though it’s hard to see or feel it sometimes
You, my friend, are such a ray of sunshine in my life. I love your courageous smiles and unflappable love for those around you.
Thank you for sharing your heart Jaynre. A teather to hope when it comes to my own well-being is what keeps me moving forward. So I can’t imagine the journey if it were my kids. I’m so glad that it is there for you now and pray that it guides you through this trial.
Praying that the light of hope is particularly bright today.
Thank you for your honesty. You aptly describe that tension of “not yet.” We have experienced that with two of our kids; one in particular season still haunts me. “Let me be blunt. I do not need to be fixed and there are no clear-cut answers. The “answers” are too simple to be helpful and the fix only covers the festering soreness.” yes. You need to be met where you are.
But I also recognize that where I am isn’t where I should stay. That this is a process, a path, and to stop and sit here in my confusion is a kind of death. I pray that you will have wisdom and discover the loving path with your two kids.
Well, my friend, all I can say is Amen. Amen to speaking your heart, not just the bubbly stuff but the scary stuff. Amen to acknowledging the thin line between life and death, wisdom we shall all carry front and center. Amen to no simple fixes or answers. Jesus’s rules for living are simple and revolve around love, but love is nothing simple, not when you have wondered whether your daughter will make it. Amen to a God who wants us to seek Him in all things. Love, Julie
Thank you, my friend. I know that you know what it is to live in the questions—to hold them and faith in the same hand and wonder if they’ll mix better than oil and water. I know the process of emulsifying (the mixing of oil and water) doubt and faith is out there.