I have been wanting to write, but I haven’t known what to write about. How do you put into words literally dozens of different emotions swirling around inside you? I have been in as deep of avoidance as I possibly can be, while packing and preparing for a trip I never wanted to have to go on.
Today, we are in single digits. It is 9 days until surgery. And sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.
I prayed, for the first time in years, this week. All I could muster, while on a walk with Kiran, was saying (out loud, mind you): God, I don’t like Your plan for my life. If you really have a plan, I don’t like it. I don’t like Your plan.
And then church this week was all about God’s plans for our lives. Of course. I’m trying to listen.
When people say “God has a plan for you.” or “God has a plan for Kiran.” to try to be comforting, all I can think is: Okay, but we don’t know what that plan is! What if His plan doesn’t coincide with my desires? What if His plan is for my son to have a short life? Or an even more difficult one with added complications? What if we go to California a family of three and have to make the difficult journey home a family of two?
It is easy to say God is good when He does miraculous things on this earth. It is easy to say God is good when you SEE the good. It is a lot more difficult to say God is good when you watch your son struggling to slow his breathing after practicing sitting up for ten seconds. It is hard to say God is good when you are making the all-too-familiar drive to the local ER. It is hard to say God is good when you have to hand your son over to a surgeon …
Which is still something I cannot imagine having the strength to do. I have been told enough by many how strong I am. I agree. I was forced into a place of strength. I have found reserves of it inside me I didn’t know existed. Love is a powerful motivator. But I still think, in 9 days, someone will have to pry him from my hands.
Then I remind myself: By giving him to the surgeon to have this surgery, I am giving him a chance at life. Yes, there are scary complications that can occur. Yes, he could die. But if he doesn’t have this surgery? He will die. It is a certainty. It may not be tomorrow or a month from now, but his body will give out.
So. I will cry. I will hug him hard. I will live with the tightly wound ball of anxiety pressing down on my chest. And I will hand him over, so that his heart can hopefully be repaired. And I will love him, recklessly.