Entrusting our Babies to God
Tonight, as I write I’m sitting on a question. Our last visit to the doctor, she suggested that our baby girl displayed many of the symptoms of a rare and serious auto-immune disease. “An answer in one week,” she said. After she took the skin biopsy and I picked up my baby girl, feeling the softness of her cheek and her strong arms wrapped around my neck, the doctor said, “That’s it, we’re all done,” as if I was supposed to just walk out of the room and right back into my regular life.
I hungered for answers that Google was ready to supply until I became sick with information. Then there were the statistics that were supposed to comfort me. Only five thousand cases diagnosed in the U.S. each year. She’s not in the usual age range I reasoned. But as I jumped back and forth on the teeter totter of conflicting realities I became motion sick from lunging back and forth with why she might have it, why she probably doesn’t. Nothing could convince my mind to stop its perpetual pacing, back and forth.
I’ve been keeping myself busy with to do’s, furiously vacuuming controlled lines into the carpet, pulling and smoothing the sheets and covers until they lay obediently, making the runny eggs behave in the pan as I chase them with my spatula. All the while avoiding having a conversation with God.
But even when I don’t invite Him in, He has a way of working on my heart as my spirit groans in uncertainty. I knew God was challenging the one place I grope for control the most: my girls… my girls. I think I’ve so much as prayed, “God please if there’s one thing above anything else You can do for me, please keep my girls safe.” In my prayers, I created a strict space where I bracketed out my daughters as the area of my life that I wanted to remain untouched.
When I finally came to Him in prayer, the firm boundaries that were once nonnegotiable, seemed to dissolve in my helplessness. I had been praying for months that God would replace my stubborn heart of stone for a heart of flesh. As I prayed I felt my stony grip for control give way to trust, and longing for God’s plan. His plan without my desperately erected walls or patched together plans. I knew that whatever the answer to that question is, that He will do what is best for my daughter- that He will save her, more than I am able.
By the time you read this, I will probably have an answer. The statistics say it’s unlikely. My heart begs for it to be negative, for God to take this cup; but whatever the answer is I feel God in the midst of it. I realized by my asking God to “keep them safe,” I was really asking to remain in control. But then, I remember that being a mom means I will never be in control, but being God’s child means I can trust that He is.