Let's do this...

I'm thankful that Asher is about to get some relief. More thankful than I can say. But I'm also finally allowing myself to feel, and it's really scary.

Yesterday, the nicest lady I've ever talked to called and gave me careful directions so we could find our way to the right part of the hospital tomorrow. She gave me a whole lot of instructions and gently prepared me for what Asher might look like after the surgery. Then she apologized for her next question, carefully choosing her words to ask if the doctors should do all they can to save Asher should something happen to go wrong.

Yes.

During that call, I had the sinking feeling that hits you in the gut when you finally realize something is actually going to happen, whether it's comfortable or not, and you don't know if you can do it. I started to allow the anxiety to rise in my chest. I could hear the neurosurgeon's voice in my head from the last appointment...

We'll go in through the back of his brain and tunnel down to the base...then the tube that drains his spinal fluid will be tunneled through to his abdomen... you'll be able to see it through his skin and there will be a bump where the shunt is...it will only last for about five years and then we'll need to do this again...

Oh. This is really happening.

Last night I watched as Asher stumbled across the room like a drunken sailor, a guy new to walking (with a heavy noggin to make it a bit more difficult). He came over and pushed on my thigh and repeated "Mama" non-stop until I looked down. He was standing there holding up some Spiderman sunglasses, his way of asking me to put them on his little cherub face.

I placed them carefully over his eyes and he turned to teeter away, talking gibberish and making his way to show Daddy his new shades.

The thought of losing him passed through my head for just a moment, but something else welled up just in time, engulfing my anxiety in peace.

That peace is something that's hard to wrap my mind around. How is it there in spite of me and my busy, ruminating mind? How does it push up through the dirt that is the sorrow I lean toward, blooming and covering me in a mysterious protection?

Even when I fight it, run from asking for it, and retreat into old habits of worry and denial. Even then. Like a stubborn mother who refuses to let her child hurt alone, almost always in the morning, it arrives. I breathe easier, I see the goodness around me more clearly, and my heart is prepared for something I would otherwise not hold the strength to handle.

Then I'm able to walk through my feelings of helplessness and lack of control. I'm able to face what might crush my heart as a mother, seeing her baby in danger and pain. I'm left to think "we can do this," and I want to shout, "I can feel your prayers, they're surrounding me! I know it's true, or I would not be able to move!"

That peace is in the deepest part of even a broken creature like me. It amazes me. It laughs in the face of unbelief and brings me closer to a full confidence in my faith. I'm no theology expert, but I am an expert in my own experience. This impossible peace must come from a God who loves me. A God who loves my Asher. I know this because it's a miracle that takes place right here in my own heart and mind. I'm so thankful.


I will do my very best to update you all tomorrow by posting how Asher is doing. If I can't do it, I will ask a friend to get in here and post on my behalf. I want to do that because I can't express enough to you how much it means that you care, that you're thinking of us, and praying for us. I DO want to shout, "I FEEL YOUR PRAYERS!"

(So picture me doing that, mkay? Like a crazy lady, standing in the street with my hands cupped over my mouth. That sort of thing...)