One Week Ago

My father-in-law noticed a while back that I don't write about Grayson much. In some ways, there's not much to write about him. He's quiet. He's laid back. He's obedient (Praise God from Whom all blessings flow . . .). Unless I want to write about how he says, "Mama, I want grapes! Two blue blankies! Big hug! Brother! Bug!" there's not much I can write about. He's not naughty, he doesn't pray yet, and he doesn't make me play Peter Rabbit with him. Yet.

It took a while to get pregnant with Grayson. Caiden was quick--Chris said, "Let's have a baby." He smiled. I was pregnant. Just like that. We were giddy and naive and expected the next time to be the same way. When test after test showed only one pink line, I began to wonder if Caiden would be our only one. Then I got a birthday surprise--finally, finally two pink lines. My pregnancy with Grayson was entirely different. So different I was convinced he was a girl, and when Dr. White pronounced him a boy, I cried. We'll probably never show Grayson the video of the ultrasound--my sobbing is obvious. Caiden was a handful, never stopping, never quiet, rarely obedient. He was also exuberantly happy every second of the day, which sounds great, but it's a hard thing to discipline somebody who hugs you after a spanking and say, "It's okay, Mama. I still love you!" and then scampers off to do something else naughty. The thought of another boy overwhelmed me.

The name "Caiden" means "exuberant." "Grayson" means "quiet one." We didn't do that on purpose, but it worked out nicely. When I was 32 weeks pregnant I hemorrhaged with Grayson and spent a day in the hospital. I arrived at noon in a state of panic, and when the nurse asked me when I'd last felt him move, and I answered "Last night," she panicked, too. I tried to explain that was common--he rarely moved. Every ultrasound showed him fully extended with hands clasped behind his head and feet crossed, like he was in a lounge chair at the pool. That's Grayson.

At birth I put an "I Love Mommy" hat on his head and told him I already had a Daddy's boy, and he was my Mama's boy. I guess it worked; he spent the next nineteen months as attached to my body as a growth. A very large growth. A very sweet growth. He still hasn't hit the Terrible Twos. He obeys, he snuggles, he asks for "big hugs" and just steals my heart in general. He's the child I prayed for fervently, sure I couldn't have. He holds a special place in my heart reserved just for him.

Grayson is also my child with a relatively normal medical history. Caiden had stomach surgery at five weeks, was hospitalized for almost a week with double pneumonia, and spent the second half of his first year battling infection after infection. He was a difficult inaguration into parenthood. Everybody knows Addie's history--mouth surgery, heart surgery, kidney problems, genetic syndrome diagnosis. But Grayson? A bout of acid reflux, and that's it. He's easy.

I took him to the pediatrician last week. He had an odd rash covering most of his body. He'd already had an ear infection and allergic reaction to bananas two weeks before, and I wondered if this rash was related. I rarely haul all three kids to the doctor for something as minor as a rash. They need to be deathly ill for me to torture myself like that, but this rash had been hanging around for a while and was developing welts. My regular doctor didn't have an opening, so we saw a new partner to the office. He looked at Gray and seemed terribly concerned. He said there were two rashes--hives, and another that's not really a rash, it's bleeding under the skin, called petechiae. He told me that the petechiae could be the sign of a serious problem and wanted to run a complete blood count immediately. I pressed him to tell me more. I told him I'd had a hard year with medically fragile children and didn't want to be worried about nothing. I told him I could handle it. I was wrong.

It seems there are three causes to petechiae on the trunk of the body--a virus, an autoimmune disease, and leukemia. Leukemia. We had the blood drawn, and I took the kids back home. I cried the entire way. Then I called Chris and told him he needed to come home immediately. Chris got on the computer and prayed online with his sister and her husband in Australia all evening. I wandered around the house aimlessly, doing dishes, playing the piano--anything to numb my mind, to keep it from thinking. He asked me to pray; I said no. He asked me to sit with him while they prayed; I said no. I didn't want to pray anything coherent. I spent the evening in a silent plea--"Not this, Lord. Not Grayson. Not my Grayson!"

We've learned a lot of hard lessons dealing with Addison's health this year. I've even said a few times that I wouldn't take any of it back, at least not for myself. I'd spare her the pain and the uncertain future, but I wouldn't remove it from my own experience. I thought I'd become strong. I thought I could handle a new crisis with grace, with hope, with faith.

But watching his sweet blond head as he slept that night, sucking on his thumb and clutching his rocket blanket, I knew I was not strong. I did not have hope; I couldn't cling to faith. All I could do was stay curled up in my mental fetal position, numb and aching at the same time. I told Him that I didn't have the strength to deal with another sick child, that I refused to consider that my precious son, the child close to my heart, could have cancer. My posture the entire evening was refusal. Refusal to take what the Lord might allow.

Our appointment was the next morning. Chris and I went together, and when the doctor told us Grayson's counts were normal, and that it was a virus, there was very little relief for me. Looking back, I think that's because I had refused to surrender Grayson to the Lord. I had refused to tell Him that I would accept His will for Grayson. I clutched him tightly to my heart and wouldn't let the Lord have His way with him. Chris felt the relief--he had prayed with hope, with faith, with trust in the Lord's goodness. I hadn't.

My best friend Bridget always tells me I'm too hard on myself. I think I probably am, but other times I give myself so much more grace than I'd ever give anyone else. My reaction was normal; the depths of a mother's heart are beyond comprehension. I did what was expected: when confronted with a crisis involving my child, I fought hard. But looking back, I fought against the very One, the only One, who loves this child more than I. I may have carried Grayson in my body, felt him move, and loved him before his birth, but He is the one who formed him. He is the One who died for him. Grayson is safe with Him. And when tested, when asked by Him if I'd be willing to give Grayson to Him, I failed. I wonder what blessing there might've been at the end of the test if I had passed. I'm ashamed that I reacted with such stubborn refusal; I can call it mother's love, but I know my own heart, and I know that I held the very One who loves me best at arm's length. I am a Christ-follower; I'm called to respond not with what is "normal," but with what is "supernatural," with what makes the world wonder at the trust I have in my God. I have such a long way to go.