When I became a mom almost 8 years ago, despite how much I could now relate to all the moms who would tell me that your love for your children is so intense it hurts, I never fully got it. Until now.
The brokenness that has ensued from the traumatic experiences we've gone through these last few weeks is insurmountable. At times it feels crushing, like I can't breathe, and like the world is imploding around me. Other times I find myself wishing this was just a bad dream that I will wake up from -- hopefully very soon.
I find myself watching Liza sleep through the night more often that I would like to admit. It's not much different than having a new baby and waking to stare at the baby monitor to make sure there's movement. In this case, though, movement would send me flying out of bed to closely monitor an "episode". And not the kind of "episode" that keeps you staying up all night because you can't wait to see who is getting canned on the next "new episode" of Grey's Anatomy. No -- an episode is new to our vocabulary -- lingo we've learned from Neuro -- is followed by "call 911" followed by "she's seizing". These episodes take your breath away as a mother, because there is nothing you can do but wait. Wait for the paramedics to arrive. Wait for the 5 minutes that is required before rescue meds can be given. Wait to make sure she doesn't stop breathing. Wait to watch for her to regain consciousness and awareness. It's harrowing. Probably the worst thing a mother can witness happening to her baby.
I'd be lying if I said each day gets easier. In reality though, it gets harder. Or so it seems. We live daily knowing a seizure -- episode -- can occur at any minute, though most likely when Liza is sleeping. We live daily knowing we have so many days before we head to Boston. We live daily knowing brain surgery -- and multiple at that -- is part of our lives forever. We live daily with the harsh realization that at any minute the pressure in Liza's brain could amount to such high levels that her DAVM and AVM could rupture - like a balloon when popped with a straight pin. And there is absolutely nothing --- nothing -- we can do. Except wait. Anxiously. Expectantly. Prayerfully.
I've always been told I'm "strong" ,if you wish to call it that. I've had my fair share of health issues, injuries, surgeries, tough circumstances in life. But when it comes to the journey we were thrust into several weeks ago, I feel anything but strong. I crumble, fall to my knees, wake in the night, cry in the shower, begging God for a miracle. Maybe, I've come to realize, that means I'm stronger than I thought or want to give myself credit for, as it takes great strength to ask for help, to trust others and to trust God. It takes even greater strength, I've also come to accept, to be still and wait. Wait for test results. Wait for a team of the best neuro and neuro vascular surgeons in the world to form a team to help your child. Wait for surgery day to arrive. Wait during surgeries to know your baby is okay and alive. And the unending wait in the years to come, knowing future surgeries are inevitable, and that we have years, decades rather, before we are "out of the woods".
I woke the other morning and did what I often do when I wake feeling out of breath and like I'm not sure I can open the front door to tackle the day. I opened my Bible and let the pages fall where they pleased. I find that at times doing this allows me to step away from reading what I want to read and read what I need to read with an open mind and heart. And this early morning was no exception.
Here is where the pages fell -- or as I like to think -- God opened His Word where He knew I needed to read . . .
"This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: In repentance and rest if your salvation, In quietness and trust is your strength, But you would have none of it."
"Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you, Therefore he will rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!"
Isaiah 30: 15, 18
It hit me upon reading this passage in Isaiah that my perception of strength -- all this time -- had been relative to my understanding of strength. I've always equated strength to mean more along the lines of physical ability. In my everyday life that means the ability to lift a 50 pound bag of awkwardly shifting granulated sugar and carry it at least 100 feet. Think sleeping 50 pound kid, whose dangling arms and feet throw you off balance as you walk up the stairs, struggling not to trip over your own feet. Until now, that is how I defined strength. The only way I could understand it -- in the human sense. Yet as I sat in the wee hours the morning, sipping my extra strong Colombian coffee, it occurred to me how little I really understood what strength is. It dawned on me that true, meaningful and lasting strength is not physical -- but spiritual. From God. In the quiet. In trusting Him. In waiting for Him.
And so, in a week where I have found myself feeling like I have not much more to offer to anyone but the crumbs of the life I thought I had that so suddenly fell apart, I have learned something so much more profound than I ever imagined possible -- that strength is a gift, freely given, gained when we sit quietly, trust in Him, and wait - confidently, and openhearted. For His timing. His guidance. His direction. His provision. His miraculous love.
And so, with less than two weeks before we head to Boston, we wait. And in that wait, I am learning to rest confidently and quietly, knowing and believing that the only calm in this storm is in Him. The only way I can muster the strength to face the days and nights ahead -- to care for both my children, our family bakery, and myself -- is to sit quietly, trusting in Him, with an open heart, in solitude. I've accepted that it's okay to cry, to sob in fact, to want to stay in bed all day and watch Hallmark movies, to have no desire to clean the house or do the laundry. And I've learned to allow myself these little moments, and in them to turn to God, cry out for his grace and mercy, and to lay my fears, anxieties, and overwhelming burdens at the feet of Jesus. Only then do I gain strength, find peace, and have a renewed sense of determination to face the day, knowing God is holding us in the palm of his hand, every minute and every hour of the day and night.
