I have a billion and one things I should be doing right now (I am leaving to go on a campout in less than 2 hours!), but I wanted to take the time to write because I want to remember this day — this feeling — every time I start to lose hope. This won’t be eloquent or poetic, but I don’t even care. This isn’t about me…it’s about God.

When we first found out about Brooklyn’s diagnosis, He placed an image on my heart. As I wrote here, that image included a little girl walking with arm crutches. But after years of doctor appointments, muscle tests, wheelchairs, and all sorts of other “reality checks,” I admit that I let go of that image. And I was good with it. I was disappointed, but I accepted it and was ready to move on.

But over the last few months, I have seen Brooklyn progressing quickly and started to feel a small glimmer of hope that perhaps my image was possible. And then today, during physical therapy, Brooklyn’s therapist confirmed that crutches are a very real possibility for our girl. She won’t likely have the coordination to try them until she is 6 or 7 — so we’ll have to be patient — but it is extremely possible.  My image — the image He gave me — is possible.

Praise God, it is possible!

Interestingly enough, all of this happened immediately after I took some small steps of faith into some unknown “waters.”  Things are brewing and God is showing up and telling me very loudly to trust that HE CAN DO ALL THE THINGS.

ALL THE THINGS, friends.

I am humbled, encouraged, and in awe of God’s faithfulness. While I often hesitate to share this kind of news because I know things can change, right now, hope is living and breathing and walking around here, and I just couldn’t keep it to myself.

To God be the glory!

“Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible,  but with God all things are possible.'” (Matthew 19:26)

Today is “the day” — or, really “that night,” — we found out about Brooklyn’s diagnosis. I always know when it’s coming, but I always have to look up the date. I think that’s a good thing… remembering but not obsessing…reflecting but not reliving. It’s all good for the soul.

What’s funny is that most people would probably think that I count this day as a turning point in my life. But, honestly, I don’t. The turning point was the next morning. “That night” I was vulnerable and heartbroken and engulfed in grief, but the next day… that was when God gently unwrapped me from His arms just enough to open my heart to hear His promise: “It’s going to be okay.” And if you have followed our story at all, you know that He has kept that promise.

I realize that there is an elephant on this blog. I’ve tried to bring it to light before, but often stopped out of fear. But interestingly enough, today is the day I feel like it’s time to talk about it.

Many times I have talked about “God’s plan” on this blog. How we would trust it and follow it. But did God actually plan for my child to be paralyzed? Did God really want my child to be disabled? How could that possibly be His plan?

I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. I think God desires us to be whole and perfect, but in this lifetime, that’s just not possible. That’s what Heaven is all about. I also know He hates suffering and that He loves my daughter far more than I ever could. He also loves me and wants me to go through this life full of joy and hope. These things I believe with every ounce of my being.

I have my own thoughts about the “why” and “how” Spina Bifida was brought into our lives. But every time I find my mind going there, I have to remind myself that Faith isn’t about having the answers. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. It’s not even about figuring out His plan. It is about trusting in His outcome and then waiting as He unveils His goodness and glory in your life.

When you look at our little girl, I truly hope you see that goodness, that glory. I know I do. Even though the plan is still unclear and one I wouldn’t have chosen, there is still happiness and hope and beauty and above all else, love.

So.much.love.

That, my friends, is God’s plan. For Brooklyn’s life, for my life, and for yours.

Four years ago, I had no idea where we’d end up, but I knew that with God, it was, in fact, going to be okay. He never said it wouldn’t hurt, but He did tell me that with Him, there can be joy. Who else could turn something so devastating into something so absolutely good?!

That night, as I sat in the darkness, sobbing and pleading with God, I asked Him THE question:  

“Why?”

Almost immediately, I remembered Jesus. His own son…on the cross. Perfect and whole, yet tortured and killed. It makes no sense to us why God would choose this path for His son and, really, for Himself. But we all know what came out of that. The ultimate ashes to beauty story. Surely if He could turn the ultimate suffering into salvation, He could turn our story into one of beauty.

So far He has done just that, and I have no doubt He will continue to do so. That is the plan I believe in. That is the plan I speak of on this blog and the one I will stand up for and tell the world about for as long as He allows.

Whether you believe in God or not, He is there. He is working in your life, and He offers you the same plan that He offers me. The choice is whether or not you let go enough of yourself and your plan to see it, to embrace it, and to live it.

Four years ago, I chose to accept His plan, and it was the best decision I ever made. I didn’t choose for my daughter to have Spina Bifida, but I did choose God. And by doing so, I also chose joy and hope and all the good things this life can offer.

Even when our plans change, God is good. All the time, He is good. In fact, that is about the only thing we can plan on.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
John 16:33

With two arms planted firmly on the handles of her walker, she pushes herself up. Again and again. I  look down at her feet.

She is jumping.

The smile on her face is as contagious as her giggle, and I find myself reaching for my phone to capture this moment. A moment that feels wonderful and victorious.

She is jumping.

I look at this little three-year-old — full of life and personality and plenty of sass — and part of me wishes that I could go back to that new Mom of three who was so full of fear and uncertainty. The one sitting in the waiting room, desperately searching for the nurse to tell her that her baby was awake and in recovery. The woman carefully bathing her child so that she wouldn’t get water in her leg casts. The Mom wishing she had x-ray vision to prove that a shunt was working properly. The one who grieved over the harsh reality of a wheelchair…

I want to tell her that it is going to be okay. That most days, it will seem like life is just as it should be. That sometimes jumping looks different, but that different is okay. Different is good. Different can be beautiful.

I want to tell her that life isn’t black and white, but it isn’t gray either. It is colorful. It is walking with braces. It is rolling in a wheelchair. It is scooching across the floor. It is jumping with a walker.

And although what is happening today might not be happening tomorrow, there is still joy and a whole lot of love and a life that is more fulfilling than she ever dreamed.

I want to tell her that those three sisters she worried about…that they would be happy and in love. That they would still wrestle and fight but care deeply and help without hesitation. That their lights would shine a little brighter when they were together.

But another part me wonders if that Mom would have really appreciated the journey had she seen the outcome. I wonder if she would have felt the joy of the small victories had she not experienced the trials. If she would have seen the beauty, if not for the pain.

I look back, and I know that this path isn’t one I would have chosen for that Mom or for that precious little baby. But I also see the many, many blessings that came out of all of it, and when I realize that, this Mom — the one right here, now — can only be grateful.

Thank you, God, for today. The pain of yesterday isn’t gone and the uncertainty of the future still lingers, but today…today, she is jumping. 

Thank you.

In the early days of Brooklyn’s diagnosis, I wrote. I wrote to heal, and I wrote to release. And I only wrote when I felt led. Somewhere in the middle of that, I started to feel obligated to write, and I hated that. I already have a writing job. This…this was for me. It was also for my family and anyone else who cared to read it, but, really it was for me. For a while, I stopped writing on here because it wasn’t helping anymore. In fact, it was making everything confusing.

But today I am going to write for me again. Because I am ready, but mostly, because I need to.

As most of you know, Brooklyn turned 3 years old last week. As in, THREE YEARS OLD. That absolutely blows my mind. It amazes me how far we’ve come — how far she has come — and how life-changing and inspirational these last few years have been. So many questions have been answered; so many unknowns now known. Some of those answers have supplied more joy than I have ever experienced, but some of those answers have been heartbreaking. Some prayers have been answered the way I had hoped, but some of them have been answered in ways I have yet to understand.

It’s interesting the way life goes on for everyone else after your world has been rocked. That is just the way it is, I know, but sometimes it is hard to come to terms with that fact when you are the one still dealing with the aftershocks. Most days, you can handle it and maybe even feel blessed by the impact, but there are days — sometimes, weeks — when the impact feels a little heavy and scary and maybe even a little unfair.

We are gearing up for Brooklyn to start preschool in a few weeks, which means school supplies and school clothes and lots of excitement. But it also means buying special leggings that will accommodate her braces, special backpacks that will securely attach to her wheelchair, and paperwork that requires me to write things like “paralyzed,” “disabled,” and “IEP.” It also means preparing my heart for the moment when my 3 year old rolls up to a bus and waves goodbye — a moment that feels way too soon, yet is necessary for the life I want for her.

That is hard.

And as I come to terms with all of this, she, too, is coming to terms with it. We have been talking a lot about her being a big girl now that she is 3 years old. We have ditched the binkie at night and getting ready to transition to a new big girl bed. There has also been lots of talk about big girl preschool and even a big girl dance class. All good stuff.

But then last week, she asked me on two different occasions if being a big girl meant she could stand all by herself…”like Emma.”

Oh.my.heart.

Then, this morning, she said this to me…

“Mommy, can you get it for me? I can’t reach it. I can’t stand.”

As her words — “I can’t stand” — played over and over in my head, I found myself responding, “Yes you can, baby. You just need a little help.”

But you know what? She can’t stand. I know that. My heart knows that. And, now, she knows it too.

That is hard.

I have spent the last few years trying to pretend that this was getting easier. That I could do this…that we were going to rock this. But it isn’t easy. It is hard, and honestly, it is getting harder. Physically and emotionally — for me and for her — it is getting harder.

And for some reason, I just needed to write that today. My heart needed to admit it, and I needed to also express it as a reminder to myself that saying it is getting harder doesn’t indicate a failure on my end…it just is what it is right now. History has shown me that God will get me through this, and in the meantime, there is no pretending necessary.

Like any mother, I am doing the best I can to give Brooklyn and Emma and Kendall what they need. And like any mother, I am also going to have seasons when it feels harder. Those seasons will come and go… and they will come and go and come and go.

Life doesn’t usually get easier. I think you just get a little better at it with every step you take. Some steps will come easy, and some steps will take more effort. Sometimes you will fall, and sometimes you will come to a point where those steps are just too hard. As my rock star is teaching me, in those harder moments, you simply need to ask for help. That doesn’t make you any less strong or any less able; it just makes you determined and that much closer to your destination.

We will get there, I know. She will get there, I know. But until then, will you say a little prayer for us as we navigate this tougher terrain? I coveted your prayers in our early “hard days,” so I am humbly asking for those prayers again today.  Because I am ready to accept them, but mostly, because I need them.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”
Philippians 4:6 NIV