All Things Beautiful

It started off with me thinking that it might actually be okay this time.

"We have an appointment this morning sweetheart" I told her in the morning when she came to me, curling herself up like a kitten, like a still small baby like she used to. I'm so glad she still does.

"It's for a needle sweetie, just one poke...it's no big deal" I reassure her and she nods because I've been doing this all along too. Reassuring her.

I learned long ago when she was still a small babe, that the stronger I was, the stronger she could be. The calmer I was, the calmer she would be. So I trained myself to be still and calm and strong and hold her steady through the screaming and writhing and the tears and she'd be okay.

I'm trying to train myself in this in other ways too. And sometimes I fail. Miscommunications happen on the telephone and emotions run strong and I am the one with tears and a raised voice and the overreaction to pain and I forget she's there, watching and soaking it all in....little sponge that she is.

And sometimes I fail in the hot seat itself. I have her little body braced in my lap, but it's going to be three pokes not just one and my reassurances look like lies. And the needles themselves; they're huge. Three times the size of those when she was here last, 18 months old and so much more trusting, so much more forgiving and forgetful. A smarty could still fix the tears last time. But this time there fear and my singing isn't penetrating it. My gentle rubbing of her back isn't fixing anything. She's wild eyed and shrieking and breaking my heart as she begs and pleads for it to be over, but there's still two more to go and I fail her. Because I forget to pray.

I forget the source of all that calm all that peace that transcends human understanding and I leave him out of the room when he is needed most. I forget to draw on the well that is the only thing that can help and I am instead left doing a pitiful job in my own strength.

She knows it and I know it, and she cries all afternoon. Cries from the soreness and the stiffness and the fever that follows that night, the trip to the bathroom because her stomach has turned sour and she cries from the sight of the blood and the bruising because I didn't hold her still enough through her panic. Mostly she cries because she feels betrayed. Her face is puffy until the next morning. 

I don't know who feels worse.

There was a lot of emotion yesterday, and eventually it was sorted through. A slow untangling and straightening out. Things returned to normal...no better than normal. Because at the end of all the struggle there is something better, something that may protect from the storm again next time. There's been lessons learned and the biggest one is to not leave the arms of the one who is holding me tight through it all either. My heavenly father is there with me braced in his lap, holding my hand, holding me still and I forget. I writhe and shriek and turn away. I try to do things on my own with a counterfeit serenity that helps no one. And I can't afford to hand the same counterfeit to my daughter. She needs more.

Later in the afternoon, I suggested we pray. She shook her head fiercely.
" I don't want to! I don't know how!!! It hurts too bad".

I know the feeling, I've said those words myself.

"Alright, well why don't you pray with me and you can repeat my words"

You can follow my example.

And she does.