Battle Cry

Last week I could tell as soon as he stepped through the door from school that my youngest had something on his mind. He melted into the couch next to where I lay in my hospital bed, and let out a sigh of epic proportions. I went first, as I usually do when he gets home. “So what’s the story today?” As his cool gray eyes met mine they quickly pooled with tears.

The past few weeks have brought new challenges and fears as this disease has relentlessly invaded new corners of my body. My young son, who should be getting to worry over things like homework and landing that jump-turn on his scooter unfurled the frustration of his day; how he had been unable to think of anything else but this next challenge I find myself facing, and as he ruminated over all his fears for me and wrestled with the thought that his mom wanted more than this from life, he was dished out two “fix-it tickets” for not paying attention in class. “I couldn’t help it mom, you were the only thing I could think about.”

Sometimes I am not sure how to respond to these moments, because I want to throw myself on the ground and kick my feet and scream that it’s not fair that a 10 year old boy should get in trouble at school because he is preoccupied with the ever-present razor of death that he lives with. I want to yell at the world that they need to be gentler and more kind and take a gosh-darn second to try to understand what people are going through. For real, couldn’t we all use a little understanding? Instead I draw the defeated hunch of his shoulders in close to me and I reassure him in every way that I know that we’ve got this, and God’s got us, and we are going to be ok. And sometimes I’m not sure if I’m preaching more to him or to myself, but as we bring our deepest fears and frustrations before the throne of grace we both lift our heads with a little more resolve than we had before. A little more peace, a little more comfort, and a little more fight to face these giants that keep coming our way.

Sometimes I anguish over the fact that when my boy pops in the door from school the things he does battle with aren’t who won the coin toss today at recess or why the lunch line was so long he only got halfway through his chicken patty before the bell rang. Sometimes I long for the simple and the mundane over the big and complex things my boy, and my whole family are having to grapple with. But when my thoughts wander to these dark places I find myself back on my knees, trusting my family to the Author of my story, and believing with everything in me that it’s a good, good story. Even if we can’t see that yet. I believe.