Some days I just miss the normalcy of life. Some days I pretend we’re just like anybody else. Like this morning. I took my son up to my room with me and played a silent rebellion against the litany of medications waiting to be given, the nurse scheduled to arrive in an hour and respiratory treatments waiting to be done.
Let the truth of who God is comfort you. Your pain is not insignificant to God. He cares deeply and enters into your hurts. Lean into His goodness and let Him guide you every step of the way.
We must build the reserves in our lives to keep us back from the edge of overwhelm. When we set our feet up on the Rock and seek to live wisely, only then can we find our way out of overwhelm.
No doubt there were peaceful moments coupled with wild joy and astonishment at the reality of the promised Messiah finally being born. In reality the greatest battle-stage was being set. The Savior had come to conquer sin and death, the King had arrived to wage peace for sinners, the Redeemer had come to accomplish the buying back of sinners to Himself.
There are no perfect parents and no perfect children, but there are lots of perfect moments along the way.
Whatever it is that you or I need to do next, remember that we glorify God and experience joy as we lean on Jesus to faithfully serve, no matter how mundane or unrecognized the task.
Grief could easily turn us into bitter, cynical, beaten-down people—and some days I am there. But with God, we can channel even our grief into ways that help us and others.
Calvin, we see you. Seizures can’t hide you from us, we just wait til they pass and we get you back. Disability doesn’t deter us–we look in your eyes, lay close to your body and feel your breath on our cheeks. We see you, dear boy.
I would sit up late at night reading stories of kids pushing far past their prognosis, astounding doctors with abilities they never thought possible. The stories were true. But it hasn’t been my kid’s story. In most ways, his reality matches the prognosis; he isn’t beating the odds.