Release. Again.
Picture from the Jesus Storybook Bible
We arrived home from a long day – a much longer day than expected – of appointments right around bedtime for the girls. Emotionally and physically spent, my plan was to snuggle Bella, my beautiful altar and poignant picture of God’s faithfulness, and rock her as she sipped her last bit of milk of the day. But then Bella kept asking for Daddy, and Ellie pleaded for mommy to put her to bed.
I’ll be honest, in that moment the last thing I wanted to do was put my almost four year old to bed. I felt too weary for questions, too frail to shepherd her through the conclusion of this day. But with a prayer for just enough grace to be fully present, I grabbed her hand and headed to her room.
Jesus knew there were words waiting for me in that room.
We opened up her Jesus Storybook Bible to where her and Daddy had left off, and I read the following words:
Jesus’ friends were sad. They would never see their best friend again. How could this happen? Wasn’t Jesus the Rescuer? The King God had promised? It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
Yes, but whoever said anything about the end?
Jeff and I had started the day with a great deal of peace, optimism, confidence, hope. As we headed over the mountains we both remarked about how different this time around felt. How we used to dread the appointments for Arabella, wondering what heavy news awaited us. But with Shiloh, with our girl of peace, there was none of that dread or weight.
The previous appointment, due to the echo, was at the children’s clinic, so this was actually our first time to set foot in the UW since we walked out with our Beautiful Grace, beautifully breathing, in our arms. It was our first time back to the infant and maternal care clinic. We marveled at how much the fish, fish that in anxious moments of waiting we had assigned to various social stratum of high school culture, had grown in the past two years.
We were taken back for our ultrasound, but into a procedure room as all the scan rooms were full. The light fixture in the ceiling was covered with cherry blossoms, I suppose to soothe those undergoing procedures. And so the investigation began again. Some measurements popped up on the screen, but not the ones of critical importance. Shiloh insisted on staying on her tummy, chin tucked into her chest the entire time, making even one shot of her sweet profile impossible. The tech finished up and went off to check with the radiologist to make sure we had everything. And then returned saying a few more things needed to be checked. She left again. And then returned for a few more pictures again.
It was at this point I began to brace myself.
In these dark halls, this department with literally no windows to the outside world, in these rooms in which we had been given so many hard words, so many punches to the gut…I could see another punch coming. And all I could do was steel myself up with the prayer, “Please don’t take your peace from us. Whatever we’re about to hear, please don’t take your peace away.”
We were ushered back to the waiting room, told we’d get all the measurements when we saw our OB. The wait for that visit was supposed to be short, but the minutes excruciatingly passed by and what was supposed to be ten minutes quickly turned into almost an hour.
The fellow sat down with us. Had us tell her what we knew about the baby. I waited for the axe to drop.
“Alright, let’s talk about the numbers.”
She set the paper down on the desk and my eyes quickly scanned it, looking for one number in particular.
I found it almost immediately. Thoracic cavity. 20 weeks 5 days.
And there it was. The hit in the gut. The lump in the throat. Her rib cage had only grown one week in the past three and a half weeks. The sudden, swift reminder that this baby’s life is so unknown, still hangs so delicately in the balance, that she may not be ours to keep.
My husband, always able to keep his wits about him even as the ground shifts beneath us, talked about how the last number had seemed quite optimistic, about margin of errors. The OB confirmed this, affirmed that all we have is two data points. It’s not enough.
Data points are never enough. Data points, supposed trajectories cannot and do not predict the work of One who defies expectations. Of the only One who has already counted each and every one of her breaths.
We were left in the room waiting for paperwork and the order for a blood draw for me. And I found myself once again at the UW trying to hold back the ugly sobs until we reached the safety of our vehicle.
But as soon as I hit that seat. As soon as I clicked that door shut, I let the sobs wash over me like waves.
I felt like I was being brought to the altar again. Being asked again, do you trust, do you hope, do you love Me, the Giver, more than you do the gifts I give? Will you release this child as well? Will you open up your hands and let go of the hopes and dreams that have been swirling in your mind…of two sisters intimately sharing a road of challenge and grace and beauty? Will you trust me that my plans are good and for my Glory and therefore for your good…regardless of outcome? Are you willing to let your dreams die, so that I may resurrect them into my perfect plan?
This place of surrender is so hard.
This place of surrender is so good.
Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this. When we’re at the end of our rope. Broken and desperate on our knees. Hands open in surrender. Hearts beaten and bruised. Completely lost unless Jesus shows up. That is the place where we actually do get to see Him move. That’s where we learn that His love is enough. His grace is sufficient.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Yes, but whoever said anything about the end?
We’re not at the end. And so we worship, we hope, we plead. We ask for life, because life is a good thing to ask for. We ask for ribs that grow, for breath upon breath upon breath upon breath on this earth. We release this little girl to the one who is knitting her with purpose, and we beg for the strength to pray, “Your will, not ours, be done.”
But this summer, should her story on this earth take the turn that our hearts so desperately want to avoid. Should we learn she was made to be the companion, the friend, the one to walk alongside Jesus…not our sweet Arabella. Should that day come, we will be able to say again, whoever said anything about the end?
The chapter I read with Ellie ends with Mary rejoicing at the sight of her resurrected Lord…and wondering, was God really making everything sad come untrue? Was he making even death come untrue?
No, there is no end. Jesus has taken away the crushing finality of death. It’s been defeated. For me. For Shiloh. For you. And so while we plead for life and breath, we give thanks that true life, true never-ending life, has already been given.
This is not the end.
Oh sweet girl,
I wish so much that I had words of wisdom and comfort for you but I’m quite certain your wisdom far surpasses mine. You know the truth, so I offer my prayers. He is able.