I got up Saturday morning with very clear plans. I was looking forward to spending the better part of the day with the ladies of our church. I was looking forward to hearing from women that have much more experience than I. I was looking forward to sharing part of my own journey of striving for a peaceful and intentional home life.
I was looking forward to ministering and being ministered to. And mostly I was looking forward to having fellowship and creating deeper bonds with sisters in Christ.
Brian had plans for his day with the kids. The kids were looking forward to having Daddy all to themselves.
It wasn’t one of those “come here’s” that you just answer casually. It was the kind that you go. Now.
I ran into the kids’ room to find my sweet daughter in my husband’s arms. Eyes in the back of her head, mouth foaming, body convulsing. A seizure.
Minutes felt like hours. “Please stop, please stop,” I plead. But you can’t tell a seizure to stop. I know that, but I plead anyway.
The seizure subsides and there are a few moments when it seems like she is vacillating between trying to be lucid and sleep.
Sleep wins. And my daughter, who normally is a very light sleeper, cannot be woken at all. For an hour.
We are at the hospital when she finally wakes.
Brian who is home with the boys makes some calls to let the appropriate people know that I won’t be able to make it.
Within minutes he has a call back from our pastor telling him that he is on his way to stay with the boys so Brian can join me at the hospital. He knew all the ladies would be at church.
Gratefully, Brian texts me that he’ll be on his way soon. Later on we will ask our wonderful neighbors to take over babysitting. Saturdays are busy days for a pastor and we wanted to be sensitive of his time.
In the mean time, I’m with my girl who has gone from lifeless sleep to screaming. It takes everything I have in me to not get angry at the fact that two nurses, 3 needles, and tons of poking later they finally get the i.v. in.
We eventually get through that, and I gather my girl up in my arms to calm her. We rock together. I tell her I love her. There is no place I’d rather be in that moment than comforting my sweet girl.
I’m thankful for a pastor who not only ministers to me through preaching on Sundays, but through his hands on Saturday by feeding my boys lunch.
I’m thankful for wonderful neighbors who love our boys and treated them with gentleness and care.
I’m thankful for the wisdom that God grants doctors and nurses.
I’m thankful for the calls, texts, and facebook messages offering to help with childcare during our follow up appointments and tests.
I’m thankful that though it wasn’t in the way I thought it would be when the day started, I was ministered to.
I’m thankful for the body of Christ that surrounds us and watches over us.
I’m thankful (oh how I’m thankful!) that my Mom will be here today. It’s been 14 months since I’ve seen her. We didn’t plan this timing, but it is perfect.
Olivia wouldn’t speak anything more than grunts for hours after the seizure. It was enough to make this Mama seriously nervous. Even now I smile that the first thing she said was, “Where’s Silas?” Concern for her baby brother even after her traumatic day.
I am filled with pride at how well Stefan handled everything. He was in the room when the seizure happened. We couldn’t shield him. He was brave and sweet through the whole thing.
I feel a pang in my heart when I hear Olivia telling Stefan that she cried a lot at the hospital. And then Stefan saying, “Olivia, we called your name, why didn’t you talk to us?” He loves his sister, and he hated seeing her like that.
Questions loom in my mind. Is this just one of those fluke seizures that kids have, or is it something more? I won’t be able to shake the glazed look in my daughter’s eyes for a long time.
I lay in bed that night and think about how differently my day unfolded from how I thought it would when I woke up. How thankful I am for the confidence that God plans my days.
I will myself to not check on my girl one more time. She’s fine, I unsuccessfully reason with myself. And then I go check on her anyway.
Coming back to bed my thoughts are whirling, and yet there is one verse I can’t get out of my mind:
“And not one [sparrow] will fall to the ground apart from your Father.”
And not one child will have a seizure apart from my Father.
And not one mother will have concern with unanswered questions apart from my Father.
And I rest.
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