Woven Faith

My body is often tired nowadays. Just yesterday, I fell asleep sitting up in my chair three times! On one such day, a little over three weeks ago. I lay snuggled under blankets, hoping for twenty minutes of sleep. The energetic play of my two young ones at home was nothing more than charismatic white noise to my overwrought body. Their giggles through the wall assured me they would entertain themselves and I was willing to pay for anything broken or messy in order to have this uninterrupted time of sleep (I add this to the collection of mother’s stories everywhere to express the state of tired ineptness I was at.)

In the between state of wakefulness and insensibility, I heard an unusual sound from the room next door, followed by, “Oh no, that’s not good - MOM!”

I threw off my covers and ran before Amelia could come to me. The sound must have been a dresser falling, I thought, but no matter where I looked, not one piece of furniture was out of place. Amelia was shouting - I can’t remember now what she was saying, I only remember panic. It was everywhere. My brain was muddled, my eyes could not see properly, due in large part to having taken my contacts out before lying down for a nap. Amelia gestured toward the wall and I kept saying, “Where is he? Amelia, WHERE IS HE?!” Again she spoke. I followed the trajectory of her arm when I registered one word, “Window!”

Oh God.

I do not use those two words in vain. We were upstairs. That window led to a steep roof, then a thirteen foot drop to the ground.

I do not remember all that I said. Or perhaps I said nothing at all and the words in my mind assailed me louder than anything vocal, but my under-slept body raced to the stairs, the screaming of my little boy quaking inside of me. “Find my phone! Get my glasses!” I was with reality enough to direct Amelia for those things. Whether with wherewithal in the moment or with gratitude in retrospect, I do not know, but those words came regardless and they kept Amelia away from whatever sorry state I might’ve found William.

I have never wished for my body to move faster than I did as I heard the echoes of my little boy’s screams for me as I ran through the house. Every obstacle was abhorrent, the lock on the back door most of all. Finally flinging it open, I flew to him. He was sitting up, a good sign, and he squeezed my neck with the vigor and sweetness only a little one can do; his weeping flooded my ears. I thought for sure his leg, broken only 6 weeks before, would have snapped from the fall. My arms moved swiftly as they swept each limb for bends and wrong angles, my hands pulled across his head as they scoured for blood. He reluctantly wiggled his toes and I called Doug.

In general, though I can be anxious about many things, I am usually calm during emergencies. Your calm and my calm probably look different. I am not stoic. I still sometimes silently cry, but my mind is clear. This was the opposite. It was as if my brain thought it had gone to sleep instead of bolting out of bed and all of this must’ve been simulated. My brain couldn’t catch up. It couldn’t accept that this wasn’t a bad dream. This induced a panic I cannot fully explain. My tears not only flowed, they heaved every time I spoke. We hurried to the car and I breathed deeply, determined to at least make my tears silent for the sake of you two children in the back seat. Thankfully, you did not notice my trembling limbs.

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Doug ran out of the Cancer Center (he is a doctor there) and I pressed the “open door” button of my minivan as we paralleled. He scooped up William, who had slowed to a whimper, and they were off through the doors of the ER. I pulled to a parking space, turned off the car, and wept loudly. I couldn’t help it. With dread in her voice, Amelia quavered, “Why are you crying mommy?” I had kept my panic from her until that moment. I walked to the back seat and instinctively inhaled enough air to steady my voice to speak, “I am crying because I am scared. Will you pray with me?”

She looked at me then, with eyes that held crocodile tears ready to spill, “Why do we need to pray?”

Prayer is not unusual in our family. We pray over and for many things, so her asking this question was not out of unfamiliarity with prayer; it was as if she knew my tears meant something she didn’t understand, and perhaps this question would fill in the gaps. My words were as gentle as I could make them; yet, their truth did not fail to create moist lines over her curved cheeks, so filled with tenderness and love for her brother.

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The hospital was rushed with activity. So many people were surrounding him. I felt obsolete. Then he cried my name and the way to him opened; no one in that room questioned where my place was. Even in chaos, the Holy Spirit can speak to us when we are turned to him. He told me William needed the faith of my family and he needed it now. I had been reluctant to inform them of his fall while knowing so little; nonetheless, I sent the text and the blanket of woven faith rested on him.

Bloodwork showed no abnormalities.

Ultrasound showed no signs of internal bleeding.

CT scan showed no signs of broken bones.

MRI showed no swelling. No torn muscles. No brain damage. No No No No.

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Five days later, William and I sat in conversation with his doctor. Questions were asked. This story was relayed in detail. “There is nothing else to call it,” the doctor said turning to William, “you are a living miracle.”

And he is.

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You all have noticed my wrinkles and gray hair as of late. One of you were particularly perturbed at the notion of me growing old. Alas, growth is inevitable, the question is, what are you growing?

I, though not yet old, am growing an old woman. I want her to be faithful and true with eyes to see the miracles of God.

In each day.

In every hour.

An old woman who’s prayers matter, and she knows they do.

I pray for each of you.

And today, most of all, I pray in gratitude you all are safely here.

Love,

Mom