Every 2 years we do this. Sit in that waiting room. Stare at the x-rays. And every 2 years I hate it.
He was 16 months old when those screws were drilled into his skull. 16 months old when that baby rib was transplanted into his neck. 16 months old when that metal plate secured everything back together.
And 16 months old when everything I thought I knew about being a Mom got crumpled. Wrecked. Smashed into pieces like our little car.
He’s 12 now. And healthy. And happy. And most days clueless of the fine-line scar that runs up his neck.
And most days I’m fine. Really.
But maybe not today.
Some scars never go away entirely. They are arrows to the wounds we’ve endured and grace we’ve encountered. They’re proof that God gives us what we need when we need it. And reminders that we’ll never, ever be the same.
Today I’ll choose to see it like that. Choose to not let that stiff waiting room air suffocate me. Choose to smile as his doctor explains how this and that are in place.
And we’ll rejoice. All of us.
Because yesterday was hard. Today may be. Tomorrow is unknown.
But God is faithful. And present. And close to terrified 16 month olds in unknown hospitals. Close to confused 12 year olds in old hospitals. And close to still broken Moms in memory-filled hospitals.
Today we choose thankfulness!
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare[a] and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)