Hold me like this," my four-year-old son will say, as he rests his head back, so that the bend of one of my arm's holds his head and neck, and his knees bend over my other arm.
I held him like that during those long, long nights when he was a newborn. Although I wanted to sleep, I also didn't really mind walking, and holding him, and just marveling in awe at the whole miracle of his existence—at the gift of his life.
I was tired enough, though, to sometimes long for a contraption that could hold a parent like that—for something to carry me that I could lean into, and rest on, while I still held the child in my arms and helped him fall asleep.
And last night I realized, that is what I have to ask God: "Please hold me like this." Perhaps I was inspired by the end of chapter six in Ralph Martin's The Fulfillment of of All Desire: "The Good News is that the Beloved loves to be leaned on!"
Our eleven-year-old son was diagnosed with delayed gastric emptying, or gastroparesis, a couple months ago. Basically, his stomach doesn't digest food and water in a normal amount of time, and he experiences severe nausea as a result. Eating food and drinking water make him sick.
Perhaps the hardest part of this is that there is no simple solution, at least not that we have found, to help him feel better. And it seems the medical system moves slowly with these type of things.
Our son has been sick for almost four months now, and he had bouts of the illness before that. Quite often, the only thing I can do for him is just sit with him, hold him close, and watch TV. It doesn't seem like much, but he says "yes" when I ask, "Does it help when I sit with you?" So I keep sitting.
Much has changed for all of us in the past four months. We rarely attend Mass together; instead, we go in shifts, so someone can stay home with our son. I've missed so many sporting events and other things I know my children would have liked me to be at. (I know, because as much as they love their brother, and as generous as their hearts may be, they understandably still feel hurt. And they let me know.) I've dropped the ball on permission slips, and lunch boxes, and homework so many times. And usually, when I try to clean, the sound of a child in obvious discomfort makes me forget why I even walked into a room. For as much as I get done, it seems to make more sense to simply sit with my sick son, or play with the healthy ones, so at least someone is getting attention. Those occupations have taken priority, for the most part.
Day by day, we are getting through, and figuring things out. For a while we were seeing small improvements, and we could encourage him to go outside for brief intervals, or he could sit and play Legos. We have all rediscovered a love of Star Wars. These small gains were huge.
But then, a surgical procedure this week put us back to Day One. Although the doctor offered us hope, instead, it seems instead like the clock has reset, and we need to patience and strength to regain our former small, but hard-won victories.
I still have hope, but the hurting child beside me, and his siblings, demand my attention more than the dream of what may be. Today, I have to love him and sit with him, and push the four-year-old on the swing, and help the ten-year-old with her homework, and wonder when we should let the sixteen-year-old get her license, and celebrate the thirteen-year-old's upcoming eighth-grade graduation. Each day holds at least small moments in which my son feels well enough to smile or laugh, and today, that has to be enough.
However, my heart also is broken at the knowledge and slow acceptance that the plans I once had in mind for our future—very good and beautiful plans—seem to be on a path different than the one God is leading us down. I have to look at those very good and beautiful plans, and I have to open my hands, let them go, and grab onto something even more good and beautiful. I have to grab on to God's plan for our coming days, months, years.
I have battled with it, and I still do, but deep in my heart, I sense His plans will lead to a richness mine can only guess at. A verse that has settled in my heart lately is, "My food is to do the will of him who sent me" (Jn 4:34).
If we follow the Lord's path, we will find the nourishment we need. He gave us His own body as food to ensure that would be the case.
Perhaps my son won't physically be strong enough to attend school next year. OK, we will homeschool. God will provide the grace, and I know I, at least, will grow from the endeavor.
Perhaps things aren't working out for my eighth-grader to attend the high school I have been hoping for two years he could attend. OK, thank You, God, for opening doors earlier this year for him to play on a sports team for a nearby school with boys he really enjoys. Thank You for giving him good friends and an activity in which he can push himself to excel.
And perhaps my son who is ill will suffer, more than I ever could have imagined. For this one, I don't know that I can simply say, "OK." But I can say, "I trust in You, Lord." Help us care for him, help us teach him that Your love is greater than his physical ailments or loneliness. Help us love him, help us walk with him, as we know You do. Please, help us.
I am finding myself so tired. And yet there is one child who is ill and other children who also have very legitimate needs. That will not change.
That is why I found so much peace last night, from the image of God holding me, as I truly rested in His arms. It came to me again today, when my son's ailment seemed particularly intense. I can face this moment, Lord, because I can rest on You. I can lean on You. I can draw strength from You. I can trust in You.
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