Recently I laid down my child’s healing.
I just let it go.
*hold your judgment here*
Something strange happened over the last few months.
It started with struggle, lots of struggle.
Tears.
And fear.
And questions.
All the hard questions I’ve asked before.
It started on my knees.
Feeling broken—so wrecked by this disease that wrecks her over and over again.
And it all felt familiar. Just like the first seizure. The first diagnosis. The first time I recognized this reality we walk.
I thought back to the beginning. That first fear struck night when I begged God to make it stop. And the time I pleaded with Him from the ground while she was airlifted into the clouds. The literal hours of excruciating seizures that were covered by excruciating prayers too.
And I recognize that He has shown up in some way through all of it. But He hasn’t shown up in THE way—answering THE prayer—the over-arching, never-ending one that says—Lord, take this from her. Heal her wholly. Let her live a healthy life.
As I’ve tried to live mentally in the reality of this prayer—I have lived physically in a reality that reminded me it was not so. Over and over and over again. And it broke me.
Truthfully I had rooted my faith more so in that prayer than anything else—convincing myself that if I laid it down my faith was less than.
The thing is my faith is not dependant on that prayer. My faith is not riding on that prayer. Dare I say my faith cannot determine if that prayer comes to fruition or not.
Faith is living in the present where it’s all a mess—but still looking to God. It’s not understanding but choosing to believe anyways. It’s a shaky voice and raised hand that proclaims “not my will, but yours” even when that feels hard and painful.
So there, struggling and broken with tear-filled eyes—I laid it down—in perhaps the hardest and bravest act of faith I have ever experienced. I let it go—with that one act proclaiming “I know you can, but even if you don’t.” Lord, even if you don’t.
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