Wrestling with God

There are moments in every mother's life where you are walking out of a giant thunderstorm, the kind that are capable of destroying your home and entire family. The clouds roll away and the sun starts shining again. You can still see the storm on the horizon as it fades away, but the sun's rays are powerful. They're healing.

Miracles do happen. Whether you or I want to accept, believe, or trust in that, they do. It's not something that can be denied. Just as oxygen is undeniable, so are miracles.

It's strange to be in that place. It's strange to be gut struck from the sheer powerfulness of the storm. I almost feel stunned in place. I almost feel frozen. I was blindsided. Not by the circumstance, but rather my emotional reaction to it. I had never felt so broken, so battered, so utterly pissed off at God in my entire life. And I think that's saying quite a lot, given what I have lived through. I was enraged. I was so angry that I couldn't communicate. I was so devastated that I didn't want to talk; to God, to Chief, to myself...

I was done. I had reached the limit of what I was capable of enduring.

I stopped believing in the possibility of hope. I stopped believing her even to be capable of being all right. I stopped praying, because I was too afraid to. I lost my faith. I lost my hope. I lost myself.

The week before we were to receive the "ultimate" news, I had this strange moment within myself. I was talking to my friend and he told me (paraphrased) to be afraid, but to not lose hope. That hope was the opposite of fear and to not ignore either. I had a reason to be afraid. But I always have a reason to have hope.

I argued with him. It's very much so the nature of our relationship: we speak truths, argue, but most of the time end up coming to very similar conclusions. It just might take one of us a while to get there.

That Sunday in church, I knew that the Holy Spirit was talking to me. It was almost surreal, how well I knew it was Him. It was so clear: Let. it. go. There was no promise that everything would be all right in the end. There was no assurance, or comfort (in the context of what every mother wants in these scenarios), just a command: let. it. go. In other words, let her go. I remember saying in my mind I can't. Don't ask me to do that. I can't. The response was quick, because it's one I have often said to my children: If it's more important to you than I am, it's an idol that you've built up in your heart, and you shouldn't have it. BINGO. Nail on the head. Flashing sign, blinking lights, arrows pointing. My child's health had become my idol.

I cried through the whole service. I wrestled and fought and I ultimately let go. I put my child on that altar and I said "Okay. She's yours. Come what may."

The next morning, I woke up feeling completely different. I felt resigned. I felt ready. I felt strengthened. I also felt like the idea of my child having cancer was finally, not the essence of the end of my life. I finally felt ready to be there for her.

That night I finally had the courage to ask for what I wanted. "God? Please don't let my daughter be dying. Please don't let her have cancer. PLEASE don't take her away from me."

It was several days later that we went in for the results. It was several days of peace and living in the moment. It was several days where we felt almost "normal". And I promise you that when we walked in to that office, hand in hand, we believed he was going to say that she had leukemia. So when he said "I can say with 100% certainty that your daughter does not have cancer." Chief and I froze. It had to sink in. We had to almost do a double take. We were ALL so surprised.

I learned a lot from the scenario. Probably more than I can adequately communicate. I learned to trust God more. As strange as that may seem to read, it's the truth. Trusting God is probably the most difficult thing for me to do. I can't even seem to bring myself to trust the people I am surrounded by, let alone a physically invisible God, who can often times seem like a complete jerk. But I specifically asked Him for my child's health and He gave it. I asked Him for it, without genuinely believing that He would give it to me, and He still did. And maybe that's what having the heart of a child is really all about. Desperation. I have a need and You are the only one who is capable of giving it to me, so PPPLLLEEEEAAAASSSEEEE!?!?!?!

What I can clearly say is laughing, playing, and living right here in front of me. I have no idea what the future holds for her, or for me, or for anyone for that matter, but I asked God and He gave. For that, I am eternally grateful.