It hit my Bear this afternoon. The reality. Mommy is going to the hospital again. He tried to talk, but his voice was shaking so much, “Buuutt, will I ggggeet to come ssssee you?” He was trying so hard to be strong and brave.
Aren’t we all in this house?
I fell to the floor and pulled him close, tucking his head under my chin, trying to hide my own tears, “Oh, Bear.” He wept for 15 minutes. “I just don’t want you to leave me again. What if you don’t come back?” he said when he could finally talk, and it took everything in me from jumping to the phone and canceling this surgery.
Those 15 minutes felt like hours. Every sob tore at my heart and rubbed open scars to create fresh wounds again, ripping and bleeding into my soul.
I haven’t slept well in days. I am exhausted and overwhelmed with all the things I must put in place before I am out of place. I am wrestling constantly to take every thought captive.
The night is the worst. The darkness. It sits in the corner of my room and waits. Waits for the lights to go out, for my breathing to even, and then it pounces knowing when the sky is black, the darkness is heaviest. And it whispers to my fears, and I lie awake through the night begging God for safety and faith and peace.
Y’all I am terrified of this surgery.
Not the procedure. I’ve had so many surgeries, the procedures feel like old hat to me.
It’s the terror of cancer. The track record that says, “He’s going to cut into you and find out that what you were trying to prevent is already there.”
I’m so afraid he’s going to find something. Another monster that will wreck our already damaged vessels.
(Side note: I’ve been told by many who are genuinely trying to encourage me how unlikely that is and to not be afraid. I understand and am grateful for that. But y’all, it was highly unlikely that I get breast cancer. I did all the “right” things to prevent it. I had a .6% chance of a thyroid cancer recurrence, yet I had one. So I’m asking, please, don’t point to unlikelihoods, point to Jesus. I need Him more than I need percentages.)
The fear is real. The fear is valid. That I know.
So I whisper fiercely to Brian, “You tell them. You tell them every day how much their mommy loves them. And you have them say it back to you, so you know how much I love you, too. Just in case something happens. You promise me.” And he promises, then tells me he’ll wait to hear it in person after my surgery.
But in the midst of the very real fear, I know my God is more real. And my God is true.
And while I grab my husband and pull him close, while I make him promise me, I cling to promises, too. Promises that God will never leave me, nor my family, and forsake us. I remind myself, my family of all He has done for us these past three years. Then my Ash humbles me with, “You forgot one, Mom. Jesus died on the cross. That’s the best thing of all.”
So while my Thursday may hold many unknowns, my future with Him holds secure. I cling to that.
While this is about me, about us, at the same time it’s so not about me, about us.
It’s about Him. His perfect plan. And I bow my head and whisper, “Thy will, not mine, be done.”
And then I can see in the darkness.
The darker my night feels, the brighter His promises shine.
Grace. Hope. Promise. Peace.
Grace will decimate what you think of you, while giving you a security of identity you’ve never had; expose your deepest sins of heart, while covering every failure with the blood of Jesus; make you face how weak you are, while blessing you with power beyond your ability to calculate; take control out of your hands, while blessing you with the care of One whose plan is unshakable and perfect in every way. (~Paul Tripp)