Praise be to God, who has not rejected my prayer or withheld His love from me... Psalm 66:20
I don’t want to be here, and that makes me angry. My selfishness makes me so angry.
I am angry at the circumstances. It was supposed to be a simple surgery and now my little boy is in the hospital again.
Infection. Swelling. Emergency surgery. And i find myself again sleeping within the four walls of a hospital bedroom.
I feel guilty because I am angry. It’s not his fault, and the doctor said this could happen to anyone.
I feel guilty because I just hate hospitals. I hate being the white girl in the hospital with the baby
The only comforting thought is knowing that he probably hates being here even more than I do.
It’s funny how open I am to assault and attacks when I am already beating myself up.
“It’s your fault. You’ll never fit here. You’ll always keep failing. “
And the comparisons add up… small enough, pretty enough, smart enough.
I accept the attacks because in my anger and guilt, I feel like I deserve it. After all, no one can break me like I can break myself.
Yet, this morning, he reaches for me when his nurses enter the room. He seeks my face for something familiar, comforting. As long as he is holding my hand, he’s ok. We watch the tv and he points and says “car” in his sweet little voice. No smile yet, but he feels better. His little body is healing.
And really, me, God? I get to be a part of this? I who would have done anything to get out of it. I am so bitter and angry. Surely there is someone more capable, more worthy of this moment. But His grace allowed me this time, this privilege.
Gently, He urges me to let go. While he sleeps, I spill everything… my anger, my regrets, my pain, and hand it all over to Him.
He doesn’t reject my prayers. He does not withhold His love from me.
A love letter written by a five year old… words misspelled, mostly pictures, as my heart tries to speak what it doesn’t really understand.
I give it to him, my picture, my love letter of longings and dreams, trusting him with what is so precious in my eyes. To someone else, it will be the work of an amateur and would render a chuckle or an “Oh that’s cute”.
He doesn’t reject it. He doesn’t patronize or belittle. He treasures, understanding my limited vocabulary, my human weakness.
And he does not withhold his love… in spite of my anger, my pain, my refusal to accept what he is freely offering.
In the face of such love, how do I turn away?
He offers me this moment, snuggled next to my sweet little boy, holding him, watching him heal. Actually, I’m not really sure who’s healing… me or him. His body, my heart.
And peace overwhelms.
We are home. His open wound is smaller. His smile more frequent. He is eating everything, and he is just beautiful. There is a reason we gave him his name. It means “Happy”, which is what he is and has always been since he was a baby.
He is a little miracle because really, in this country, his infection should have been much worse. It should have caused more problems. But He is healing beautifully, thanks to the work of an amazing and powerful God.
He has accepted our prayers and answered with grace. His love is overwhelming.
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