Red Rover

It was sunset, and I was driving south down a long road. Looking to the west out my passenger window I could see for miles. There was an unobstructed view of the mountains, silhouetted and backlit by a gorgeous orange glow. The sun had sunk below the peaks, its radiance shining upward, turning the sky into a stunning display of colors, blending yellows, oranges, pinks, and purples in an ombre affect only God could create. Out my driver’s side window to the east the view was dark, mixed hues of purples and blues, and lit by the bright orb of an almost full moon. Beautiful in its own right, but lacking the warmth of the sunset.

That long road split between night and day felt like a picture of my life. It seemed to mirror that in-between space where I live, riding the line of hope and anticipatory grief. Basking in the sunlight of the life I live and its vivacity and glowing warmth, but looking the other way to the night that is ever encroaching on its own time line. I try to live in the moment, to not be a worrier and instead to enjoy (or at the very least get by) each day as it’s presented. I even wrote a blog about it not too long ago, referencing the Proverbs 31 woman who “laughs without fear of the future”. Sometimes that’s me. But sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes anxiety and anticipatory grief team up and it feels like I’m playing red rover against the biggest bullies on the playground. They fight dirty, clotheslining me with emotions and fears so big it knocks me to the ground, the wind pushed right out of my lungs. Times, like now, when I’m preparing for my daughter’s upcoming surgery and feeling a restless, internal panic at the thought. My typical coping technique doesn’t work, I can’t mentally coach myself and say, “stop being irrational.” This anxiety has strong roots in reality.

It only takes a short time scrolling on Facebook for me to see the beautiful, heart wrenching pictures of other friends on this journey who have said goodbye to their precious Wonder children, or who are in a fight for their lives. I end up sobbing for my friends, wondering when our time will come. When will we have to let our little love go be with God instead of us? Will it be after this surgery? Or when she’s 4, 6, 9, 13, 18, 21?

We are quickly approaching Wonder Woman’s third birthday and I am in awe of our girl. I am so grateful to God for every single day we’ve had with her, even the tough ones. She has far surpassed what the doctors believed she was capable of. But any time a child is taken from their parent is too soon, no matter what the “expectations” were. What does it matter what doctors say? Who cares if we should be amazed at our children living 10x longer than expected? The heart knows it’s always, always, always too soon for a parent to bury their child.

So what to do when anxiety isn’t irrational? That’s my struggle. When the fear begins to well up in me at all of the things that could happen, only it’s less a possibility and more an eventually. How do I cope when my standard techniques aren’t applicable? To be honest, some days I cope pretty poorly. Some days I’m a ball of anxiety, irritable, unable to handle the little things because of the big hunk of fear taking residence in the back of my mind.

However, one of the ways I cope is to write, usually in my prayer journal and other times in my blog. I’ve thought long and hard about whether I want to share this or not, and decided that I do. Because I have promised honesty to anyone who wants to share in our journey, and I’m not a fan of sugar coating unless it’s on M&M’s. I don’t want anyone to look at me and think I’m something that I’m not. God didn’t give a special daughter to a special person. I’m not especially resilient or capable. I’m certainly not perfect. And I’m not some super Christian or super mom. I’m just super stubborn. I’m the kid running to the same pair in red rover over and over again, determined to breakthrough; determined that this place of anxiety and grief won’t destroy me. And though it might overwhelm at times, it doesn’t get the final say.

From the end of the earth I call to You when my heart is faint;

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

Psalm 62:1