Alone. The word holds such emptiness. My son doesn’t like to be alone. Just last week all 7 years of him decided wisdom meant scooping his baby sister into his arms so he wouldn’t have to brave the basement’s territory unaided. I couldn’t help but giggle at the hilarity of the situation. Other times his fear annoys me. Like when he senses my footsteps suddenly moving in a direction that might leave him companionless. Immediately he’s running from the bathroom, bubbles foaming from the mouth and toothpaste dripping down his chin to ask, “whe ee goin?” Seriously? Yet, if I’m being honest, I get it. Mother and son-we two aren’t that different. Get to know me just a little and you will learn that being away from my husband isn’t my favorite thing. Years ago, when he had a late-night meeting, I was sure a criminal was lurking outside our front door, just waiting for the right moment to attack. I was slightly humiliated when a brave deacon’s wife did the drive by for me and saw nothing. I was even more mortified after tip toeing outside just to discover my imagined prowler was simply a stack of library books the town librarian had dropped off (Note to self: Next time just pick your books up on time). Over the years I’ve gotten used to the busy seasons of life that bring fewer nights home than away. Kids have added a consistent chaos, and before I know it, the night blinks, opening the door to my husband’s return. It’s the overnights when my head hits the pillow without my husband next to me that are more difficult. I triple check that the doors are locked, and pepper spray rests beside me like a favorite teddy bear.
A couple weeks ago I lay on my self-made bed of fear, trying to move myself to the cradle of God’s faithfulness. Preparing myself for sleep, I wondered what the news of tomorrow would hold. Fears began to pile. Fears do that-they build a mighty fortress out of our heart’s imaginations, trapping us in their stronghold. One moment we feel secure, a tree well grounded. And in an instant, we are swept up in the changing seasons of our hearts. The tempest hurls it’s uncertainties, blowing us back and forth in our unbelief.
It all happened so fast. One moment I was picking apart a fight over whose turn it was to stir the oh so healthy orange cheese into the macaroni, and the next I was making a pro-con list of whether to take my daughter to the doctor. Yes, her leg has dull pain every now and then, but it’s probably just growing pains. This wasn’t my plan for the week, but with her dad gone, I told my daughter she could sleep in my bed and made a mental note to call the doctor the next morning.
As we drive the 25 minutes to the doctor, I assure her-yep, I’m sure it’s not a big deal. We are just getting it checked out so we can figure out what it is. I veer into my usual parking spot-the one reserved for new parents with infants. Every time I park here, I wonder if I’m breaking some sort of rule-I’m not a new parent, and does 17 months qualify as an infant? I do the math in my head, and decide that since I have multiple children along, I am in the clear. We scurry inside, check in, make small talk with the always kind receptionist, and wait to be called.
Is it silly that we are even here? My blossoming child points to the tender point. The doctor feels both legs, and I can sense it-that quieting air that suddenly rushes through the room. My breath is sucked dry as I wait for her to tell me what is going on. It comes with caution, because what doctor wants to tell a mom with 4 little kids in tow, that she is concerned. And then suddenly words escape her, starving my attempts to breathe. “So…this leg does feel larger than the other. We will want to investigate further. I’m going to send you over to X-ray.” I can see it in her eyes-that unspoken, “We need to make sure this isn’t cancer.” As we walk over to X-ray, I can tell my girl’s anxieties are surfacing. But she stifles it. She is braver than me. They complete their pictures in minutes, and I can’t help but steal a look at the images. I see it clearly-a circle by the bone. My mind darts to worst case scenario. I want to break down, but I know my job is to keep it together. It’s only when we return home that I find a quiet place to cry. I know it’s not a good idea-google never comes to my aid in health situations. But I do it anyways. My far away sister listens to my fears, attempting to balm my breaking places. I call the doctor to see if the results are in. No surprise…they aren’t. I cry some more. I look at my kids as if I’m present, but I am far off.
Once 7 pm hit, I had thrown away any hope of the doctor getting back to me. Do I try and be techy and figure out this My-Chart thing, or do I keep waiting? I wouldn’t know how to read the results anyway…it would just add to my panic. 7:30 rolls away, and suddenly my phone rings. SSM health bleeds across the screen. My insides are churning-the way they do when you are bracing yourself for bad news. It comes bluntly. “She has a 2.5 cm loose mass on her leg. There may also be a small fracture.” I can hardly piece together profitable thoughts and questions. “We are going refer her to an orthopedic specialist. It’s higher priority so it shouldn’t take too long. Where most cases aren’t cancer, I cannot rule it out.”
I hang up the phone and suddenly feel the emptiness of my husband’s study surrounding me. The kids are running wild…no different than my thoughts. The envelope I had scribbled notes on stares up at me. 2.5 cm mass. Can’t rule out cancer. Small fracture. Orthopedic specialist. I call my husband immediately. I’m incoherent but begging him to come home. I cannot do this alone anymore. I need him here. He’s always here. Why isn’t he here? “Cherith, there’s no point in coming home. We don’t know anything yet.” I know he’s right, but it doesn’t salve the wound. It just adds more salt. I call my sister back. She provides soothing assurance and God’s Word. “Cherith, I asked myself the same question. Why is God doing this while Erik is gone? He’s such a rock for you. But for some reason He is making you walk this alone. This is a time you and Kennedy are supposed to walk together. You were fit as mother and daughter…and there is no one else who could be her mom in this moment.” I’m scared, but her words pacify my struggling soul…
I haven’t told her anything yet, but I can tell my daughter is worried, wondering what the doctor said. How do I approach this moment? Do I lie and tell her everything is fine? She’s 9, but she’s not stupid. So, I tell her the truth. The truth is they saw something on your leg that shouldn’t be there. The truth is we don’t know what it is, and the truth is I’m a little worried too. And the truth is that’s ok, because the worry pushes us to God. The truth is that God loves you more than I love you, so whatever happens must be good. We hold hands, and we talk to God about our worry and His way. And mother and daughter are knit close in this moment, as both of us children are woven close to God in prayer. The future seems foggy, yet her childlike trust is clear. And I know it to be true in this instant, that this is what it means to be saved in childbearing.
It’s striking how the abruption of life slows time. Suddenly nothing else matters besides my kids. I don’t know what the next few days will hold, but if I’m being honest, they are the one thing giving me sanity. So, I decide to keep them home, holding close all that is precious. I don’t sleep well when they are in my room, but it doesn’t matter. I want their smallness close by. My daughter lays beside me, hands laced with mine, and I can’t help but wonder what her future holds. There are so many ways she amazes me. My eyes close, allowing the sleep to come in spurts. But the determination of night calls out, waking me to its dark abode. Father, I can’t sleep. I am afraid. As dark bricks of worry stack one by one, I recall how my son’s hands had once stacked atop mine as I attempted to knock down his fortress of fear.
It was months ago. My son’s eyes flashed with panic as I pulled the sheets over his frame. Sleeping on the main floor alone had proved to be a difficult transition. After reassuring him of God’s presence numerous times and reciting, “I will both lay me down in peace and safety”, I opened my palm on his lap. “Jayden, look at my hand. Do you see it? Ok good. Pretend that my palm is your bed.” His half smile tilted in curiosity, exposing his single dimple. “Now place your hand on mine.” Hesitantly, he raised his hand before plopping it onto mine. As my large hand supported his small, I said, “Imagine that your hand is you and my palm is your bed.” I rested my other hand on top of his, creating a sandwich. “Now try and break your hand free.” Wriggling and giggling, he tried to release his hand, but finally chose to forfeit to my strength. “You can’t get out Jayden. My hand is sort of like the palm of the Lord. Your name rests on His hands. And my hand that covers yours? -It’s like the grace of God blanketing you. It never leaves you, even when fears cause you to squirm. You can rest secure.” He had understood this. And then I waited for his usual words to come, “Are you gonna be downstairs?” Yep, I’ll be here. I am always here. He had given way to sleep. Yet the nights center had woken him, pushing him to mother’s room. How he needed mother. His faith had been imperfect, but it had also been beautiful. This memory of his mustard seed faith plants remembrance in me, sweeping through most tenderly-God’s grace…it’s like a blanket.
I call my husband…it’s only 10:30 by him. Maybe he will still be awake. He answers. Listens. Comforts. He isn’t close, but I know we are close. When the conversation ends and I meander back upstairs, I trip on that package I never opened. I can’t remember what I ordered, so I tear at its seams. Waiting for me is a “just because” gift from a faraway friend. She never would have known how timely it would be…how can such a thing be coincidence? God is here. And I hear His promises no different than like mine spoken to my son…Yep, I’ll be here. I am always here.
Morning comes and my daughter’s eyes greet their hello. “What you are thinking, Kennedy?” Tears fall, staining her Daddy’s pillow. Her lip begins to quiver, “What if I never run again?” Her fears may be different than mine, but oh how they bind her just the same. Lord, please give me words. Another prayer ascends, and when we utter our amen, she says it softly, “I’m so glad you’re my Mom.” It’s a hug to my heart-a God given gift where I feel I am floundering. If only she knew all the ways God is using her to shape me. “Back at you sweetie. Back at you.”
The next days are spent with phone calls, appointments, and more unknowns. Surgery is scheduled to take the tumor out of her bone. My son complains of continual headaches, my house is messy, and suddenly I feel worn thin. My daughter sees my tears. My raw is exposed. I tell her sometimes we just need to cry. Not because things are bad, but because we are tired, and God understands that kind of broken. We forget about the homework, piano lessons, catechism, and unending to dos. I tuck the kids into bed and sit in a bubble bath sprinkled with tears, wondering how much more I can take.
It's the day before surgery and my mind is playing a game of “What if?” What if it’s cancer? What if she dies? What if I fail as a mother? What if Jayden’s headaches are something serious? What if more unknowns pop up when Erik is out of town next week? What if, what if, what if...I force myself to sit and read through devotions that have lost their consistency over the past two weeks. And there it is, a slap in the face. “If more pain means more glory, only God can help me to accept that. He can also help me to praise Him for it.” (Created to Care- God’s Truth for Anxious Moms by Sara Wallace). My wheels start to reverse. What if more pain means more glory?...The winds of my heart steadily slow.
We wait as our daughter lays on the operating table. I think on God’s sheep, who in the storm, have nuzzled close to my side. Who have watched our kids, made food, sent encouraging notes, and brought gifts to lift our daughter’s spirits. Even the youngest of sheep thinking on us and her. I think on the doctor who called before business hours on her personal cell. I think on all the ways God has provided. Our daughter’s patient number reads green across the monitor’s screen, reminding me her leg is cut open, her bone all exposed. I hope she remembered she’s never alone. I hope that stuffed animal we bought her soothed some of the fear as she was wheeled away from us to all the unknown. I hope this is over soon. I hope others who walk these walls of worry find hope in their unknown.
The doctor comes and tells us they are quite certain the tumor is benign, but they will send it away for further testing to confirm. These things can be common in kids, but surgery went well, and our daughter is just rousing. They take us to her. She is so fragile and fair...just waking from her faraway dream. She smiles up at us before drifting back to sleep. My heart whispers to her what I know to be true of Father, “Yep, I am here. I am always here.” Ok Lord...let the seasons blow. Let Your seasons blow.
It’s true...I am prone to the "What if" struggle. I try and steal tomorrow's graces, when the contours of their face are only given for today. My anxieties sprout in a foolish attempt to soften tomorrow’s blows. I am so busy picking at today’s thorn that I miss the grace giving way to rose. What if tomorrow turns out different than my frailties wish? Even then, I must believe His grace will be sufficient for the thorn He refuses to remove.
It’s funny how quickly life can change. The hearts seasons have a way of shifting swiftly from sunny days to sorrows shade. Today I may be stationed at mountains peak, but still tomorrow I could be bent in valley low, curled in fearful trepidation at the mountains stern face…my faith the waver in the wind, as I question if there will be enough grace. What will this pathway of unknown hold? The simple fact is only God can know. My heart’s seasons will continue to shift…their colors changing from bright reds to dreaded greys. But even in the seasons of unknown, when the air around me changes, when I don’t know what’s coming next…even there…even here…I am not alone, for I am always known by my God who is God {A} lone (Psalm 86:10).
Brave faces before surgery
Waking up from anesthesia next to her stuffed animal, Lady, who we bought to accompany her into surgery. The nurses dressed Lady up to match Kennedy when she woke up. Their thoughtfulness brought smiles all around.
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