On the Spirituality of Sickies

Judah's prescribed antibiotics and lots of rest have already made a remarkable difference in the boy, who is, for all intents and purposes, back to his old funny self. Whatever caused Eden's cough seems to have been defeated instead of migrating malevolently to another structure, as it did with her siblings, and I am hopeful that another day or two of laying low will show her fit to attend school on Monday for her birthday treat day. Selah, however, was in the ER last night for what has now been diagnosed as bronchiolitis, RSV, and possibly the beginning of pneumonia. It feels so dramatic to make the decision to send the baby to the ER with daddy at 10 o' clock at night, but these alarming symptoms (not to mention mother's intuition) so rarely happen during office hours, it seems. I hate that my kids are sick, but at least my instincts have proven sharp in the detection of the really bad stuff. Hopefully Selah bounces back as quickly as her brother did, and we can list this week as "the" big sickness of the season.

In an effort to maintain perspective as a caretaker of all these sick little children, I've romanticized a photograph of the morning. I can still see the pathetic laying on the floor, the thick wad of snot, the kids watching another animated movie in an attempt to keep them still, resting, and occupied while their small bodies fight infection. Perhaps if I make it look hazy and muted, I can get a head start on how I will likely remember these days.

Even though the last two nights have been back-to-back massacres of a good night's sleep, I have been awake and alert at my normal time each morning, eager to brew my coffee and open the pages of my Bible to Isaiah. In the part I read this morning, God was warning the Israelites that they would soon be taken into a 70-year captivity by the Babylonians, and they felt forgotten and abandoned by God. God's response is so tender: "Can a mother forget the baby at her breast? And have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!" The idea of a mother "forgetting" the baby on her breast is so absurd, especially as I feel firsthand the vigilant devotion to my ailing young babes. It keeps me up at night. It weighs heavily on every- literally every waking moment. What a fitting illustration for me, then, that "the Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones." When I insist on looking only at my circumstances, the source of my hope and joy is relegated to those circumstances. But when I allow him to be the "lifter of my head," the perspective changes things. It changes me. HE changes me. At the risk of over-spiritualizing the sick kids... I am learning to look up.