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“Great is his faithfulness. His mercies begin afresh every morning.”

-Lamentations 3:23

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Last month, I drove my 3-year-old back to the hospital where he was diagnosed with hydrocephalus as a baby. We’ve made this drive so many times in his short life, but this time, the testing his neurologist wanted required an admission where he would be tethered to EEG cables for 48-hours.

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We got through attaching all the leads to his scalp and I set him up to play with some magnatiles, then surveyed the room and started arranging our supplies for our stay. Out the window and across the street, I could see a giant ball composed of glass. At first, I chuckled because Benaiah asks me to take him to see the “Big Ball” after every scan. It has become our own tradition and I knew he’d get a kick out of seeing it from his room. But my chuckle ended hollow.

The Big Ball always stirs a mixed response in me. It is also the hallmark architecture of the Women’s Hospital where I was an ICU patient during my pregnancy with Benaiah. I turned away and to stock of the room again: the cables, the rocking chair, the hospital bed, the door we stare at as we wait for the knock.

“This is my own personal trauma-scape.” I breathed, as my stomach went tight and uninvited memories from both places flooded my mind.

Painful memories where I had no control. Gut-punch conversations where no one knew what to do. Anguished moments cradling my infant close to my own sick body and trying to make sense of his brokenness. They washed over me and I took deep breaths.

“But, Lord, this time the story is different. Help me to tell myself and my family a different story, even in this same setting. Whether I like it or not, this is 48 hours of exposure therapy. So, I invite you to do some healing work here.”

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Benaiah’s journey has been and is an ongoing process of surrender – and it is battle. It is battle to walk through suffering and threat and then release my fists again and keep trusting. To notice what God spared instead of rehearsing the cost. To take what I hold precious and hold it up again to a good God who does not place himself neatly inside the lines of my expectations.

Our story has hurt. And it’s easy for me to flinch as I look forward.

Lord, I know you’ll meet me there. You’ll go before me and behind me and you’ll walk close beside me through whatever the next fire is. You’ll provide and protect and be my strength. I’m just wondering: how much is it going to hurt?

I want to lean forward, whole-heartedly trusting, because I have come to know my God in the deep, and He is trustworthy.

Psalm 62:6 says, “God alone is the mighty rock that keeps me safe, and He is the fortress where I feel secure.”

So I am wrestling with my tendency to flinch. And I’m asking for this feeling of security. I know by now, in this lamp-unto-my-feet life, His faithfulness to guide me will not likely look like an explanation of what’s coming. It has driven me to my knees, this asking.

How? Lord, how can I rest when you don’t tell me what to expect? Abraham offered up his son, but he also had your promise that Isaac himself would have children. He had your word that his son would somehow be okay, and he banked on that.

I want to relax in your faithfulness, but I have no idea what’s coming! How can I relax toward Benaiah when I have no promise for what his life will hold?

Then, on a phone call, a friend shared this verse:

“Indeed he was so sick that he nearly died. However God had mercy on him, and not only on him but also on me, so that I would not have sorrow upon sorrow.”

-Philippians 2:27

I read it and I resonated with Paul as he voiced this soul-churning over the thought of losing his dear friend Epaphroditus. When Benaiah went downhill, I had already lost my job, my home, and my health. I was already depleted and buckling. If I had lost my son, or even had to try to face his brain surgery at that point, it would have been sorrow upon sorrow. And God, I don’t know why, when I look at the many parents who have lost their children or walked through unimaginable things with them, that you chose to spare mine. But in our story, you had mercy. Not only on him, but on me, so that I would not have sorrow upon sorrow.

As I sat with it, expectation surfaced:

Mercy. That is what you can expect. You can keep expecting mercy. Because I am merciful.

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

-John 16:33

I have overcome it with my mercy.

“Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved.“

-Ephesians 2:4-5

The waiting, and the night, and the grief, and the suffering, they last longer sometimes than you think you can possibly bear. But then. I show up merciful. Because that is who I am.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

-John 1:5

“So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most.“

-Hebrews 4:15-16

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I have no specific promise about what Benaiah’s life will be. But I will cling to this promise of mercy. Whatever may come, we will see mercy. Because our God walks through it with us and that is who He is. Whatever new hits my bruised heart may take, when I come to Him, He promises I will be met with mercy. So I will keep coming boldly. I will cry out to Him to show me: where are the promises I can take shelter under when the storm doesn’t stop? I will reach for the One who is close to the broken-hearted, who could heal with a word, but speaks of Himself as the One who takes the time to bandage our wounds. (Psalm 34:18, Psalm 147:3)

I still do not know what the next chapters will hold. But I must go about learning how to breathe in the middle of the story.

“You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies.”

-Psalm 23:5

Lord, may I learn to sit down and eat it. The storm may not let up, but the shelter is sufficient. The danger may continue to loom, but the good shepherd protects his sheep while they eat. And sheep do not keep watch. They trust their shepherd, because he lays his life down for them. (John 10:11)

“I look up to the mountains—
    does my help come from there?
My help comes from the Lord,
    who made heaven and earth!

He will not let you stumble;
    the one who watches over you will not slumber.”

-Psalm 121:1-3

Jehovah. You are many things. And today, to take new courage, I needed to remember that you have been merciful to me, a sinner, when I could offer you nothing at all. James 1:17 says that you do not change like shifting shadows, so I can expect this: You will be merciful to me tomorrow.

I may always wrestle with the dark, deep places our story has held, but I will choose to trust that you were – and you are – protecting us.

As we walk forward, I don’t know what your mercy and your protection will look like. But Jesus, give us eyes to see it.

“Even though I walk
    through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me…

…Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.“

-Psalm 23:4, 6

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As the tech worked the last of Benaiah’s scalp electrodes free, I rocked him on my lap and looked out the window at the morning sun glinting off the Big Ball at the Women’s hospital. We still had a few more hours until discharge, but we had made it through testing, and Benaiah was now free of the cables and could work out all that pent up energy. He quickly took to terrorizing the hospital staff in the hallways with the Little Tike car they keep on the floor. Person after person stopped to greet him and celebrated with him over his new-found freedom. I had watched so many of them stop into our room over the past few days and warm to him. Some held him in their lap while I got a fresh cup of coffee, some built blocks with him, one brought him bubbles, another sat on the edge of the bed with me in the middle of the night and listened compassionately as I longed for clarity and sat with unknowns. They knew it was hard and we were handled so gently.

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“Goodbye, Big Ball!” Benaiah called over his shoulder as he strutted proudly to the parking garage with a pinwheel, a muffin, and a giant balloon in tow.

Goodbye, Big Ball.

Here is where we have hurt. And here is where the binding up of our wounds has begun.