Let This Cup Pass

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I found myself crying this out today as I got the call telling me that we would need to increase our son’s medication… again. Our son, Samuel, was diagnosed with epilepsy several months ago and it has been a roller coaster. He has had seizures since he was 16 months old, but through some bad diagnosis we didn’t know it was epilepsy until he was seven and a half. We had been told by two different pediatricians that Sam had a tic. He would space out for just a few seconds several times an hour, but it never developed beyond that so we took that diagnosis and ran with it. Every couple years we would broach the subject again only to be told that it wasn’t seizures. When we moved last year to Washington we thought we should mention it to his new doctor. This time the doctor was fairly certain Sam’s glitches, as we called them, were petit mal seizures. Petit means small. Mal means bad. Small. Bad. Seizures. As if there are small good seizures.

Today, after talking to the doctor we were told that since he is still having several seizures a day we would need to increase his medication again. This is the second medication he has been put on since our world turned upside down just five months ago.

I find myself wanting to stomp my feet and shout, “IT’S NOT FAIR!!!! TAKE THIS AWAY!” I want to listen to Mark Schultz’s song, “He’s My Son” over and over again while curling up in a ball and despairing just so I can cry harder. If you know this song you know how hard it makes you cry when there is nothing wrong at all. Normally I turn the radio off when I hear the opening notes of that song, but today I want to give in to the despair. I want to hold my breath until God takes it away.

Just so you know, I know it doesn’t work that way, but it’s how I feel today. So I chopped wood. It’s what I do. I chop wood when I am working something out. The callouses on my hands reveal how much time I have spent recently working through this. My arms may ache and I end up smelling like a lumberjack, but my it does my heart good. My heart calmed again and I heard God’s voice telling me, “I knit Sam together in your womb. Do you trust me to take care of him?” By the time I had sweat beading up on my forehead I remembered dedicating Samuel to God when he was a baby. He was my promise. I had been told it might be difficult to get pregnant, but God had promised me a son years before I had even gotten married. Like Hannah I prayed for a child and God fulfilled his promise to me. Like Hannah, I named him Samuel because “God hears.”

God heard me today too.   Whether this cup passes or not I will trust God. I will. I will. I will. He was God’s before he was mine and His plans for Sam are not cancelled out by this diagnosis. God required this in His plan for Samuel and by extension us. I will trust God and His plan. I. Will.

Priscilla Shirer said it best, “The abundant life is not when no impossible situations occur and you’re experiencing peace, joy and happiness. While that’s nice, true abundance is really seen when you’re sitting in a prison circumstance, when you’re eye to eye with an impossible situation, and right in the heart of your impossible, you experience the fullness of God. When, like Paul, we can pour out our honor and praise upon God and maybe even write a doxology of our own in spite of what we’re going through.” Ephesians 3:20-21

Colton Dixon’s song “You Are” is so poignant to me right now.

When I can’t find the words to say how much it hurts

You are the healing in my heart

When all that I can see are broken memories

You are the light that’s in the dark

You are the song, You are the song I’m singing

You are the air, You are the air I’m breathing

You are the hope, You are the hope I needed

Oh, You are

He is. He really, really is.


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