2022

An outpatient clinic wasn’t where either one of us wanted to be 5 days before Christmas, but a late October flu made today’s annual appointments a necessary evil, despite all my best efforts at better timing.

As we headed into our third stop of the day, I yawned and looked at my watch. It was only 9am.

“Good morning,” the nurse said to my daughter as she transitioned out of her wheelchair and onto the exam table. “Now that you’re 12, we’d like you to fill out your own paperwork.”

It was an unexpected request; one my girl wasn’t quite sure about, at least at first. Her confused face looked at the nurse, then looked at me, and then looked back at the nurse. After a few seconds, she reluctantly reached for the stack of papers bound together with a pen, and then, without saying another word, got to work.

As the nurse left the room, I resisted the urge to help and, instead, sat back and decided to watch this moment unfold. I had no idea what my daughter was being asked on those pieces of paper—nor what she was answering—but I knew this was something she needed to do by herself, and not just because someone told her to do it.

Just 1 hour earlier, I watched yet another medical professional manually manipulate her body, testing her muscle strength and what she could and could not do. I watched my daughter try so hard to be strong, even when her body wouldn’t cooperate.

I heard the slight frustration in the therapist’s voice as she attempted to assess and measure my daughter’s abilities:

“No, kick back, not forward. No, no. Not that way. Try again.”

My girl tried again and again, each movement graded and earning a number that meant something to someone, even if it meant nothing to us.

From there, we moved on to x-ray, where a technician positioned her body several times, finally deciding that it would be best if my daughter removed her top undergarment.

“That felt weird, Mom,” she admitted to me afterwards. “I didn’t like it.”

I knelt down, gave her a quick hug, and told her how much I loved her.

All of that led to this third appointment, where a pile of papers and a pen held more power than that nurse probably realized.

With every checkmark my daughter made, I saw a confidence rising up, an ownership that felt so very right and deserved. I saw both dignity and determination in my girl’s face, and I wanted to both crumble into tears and raise my hands in praise.

To the average person, this looked like no big deal, but to this mother, it felt like a promise being answered, a sacred glimpse into the plans of a kind and faithful Father.

She’s got this. He’s got this. They’ve got this.

And me? Well, I just get to witness it.

What an absolute privilege.

As I watched my brave girl fill out those forms, I felt something shift within me—a deep knowing and a whisper in my heart that felt like the very breath of God settling my soul.

***

Truth be told, I dread these annual appointments. Having eight specialists in one place is convenient, but it makes for a very long day, filled with lots of information and often surprising news.

A simple symptom turns into another surgery. A tight muscle reveals a vastly different future. A hard decision feels like a tradeoff more than a solution.

And for whatever reason, it all seems to happen around Christmastime. Sometimes, that’s been a choice for insurance reasons; other times, it’s been a medical priority. Most years, we’ve had to be intentional about making this season light, even though so much of it felt very, very heavy.

But today, my usual weariness was met with hope. Not only for me, but for my child, and I wondered if this is what Mary felt as she treasured and pondered. Grasping the innocence of her sweet baby, I imagine she so desperately wanted to protect him from an overwhelming and uncertain future, all the while knowing that her job was to simply love and trust.

I suppose that’s the holy assignment of any mother—to love and trust. At first, it’s a hands-on job, but then slowly, over the years, God gently releases our grasp as He reveals His presence and provision, gaining our trust as we slowly let go.

He’s got this.

Maybe this is what Christmas should look like after all—God revealing hope and peace in the most unexpected places and moments.

In a dirty manger. In a shining star. In a doctor’s office. In a young soul feeling her worth.

He is Immanuel—God with me; God with my daughter; God with us all.

His presence truly is the best present, and today, my weary mama heart is rejoicing.

***

(*Shared with full permission)

No one could have known the weight of what I was carrying that day.

From the outside, I looked like any other expectant mother browsing the aisles of Target.

I was 18 weeks pregnant and wearing a bright yellow shirt and my favorite maternity jeans. My almost-two-year-old was wiggling in the front of the cart, playing with something I grabbed from the dollar section. We were passing the time while my oldest was in preschool, and I was clinging to a vanilla latte that was giving me some much-needed energy and comfort.

As we neared the toddler section, I saw someone I recognized. She was an employee stocking the accessory shelves, and I tried to make eye contact and offer a smile. She noticed me and quickly looked away.

At first, I was insulted.

But then I realized what I must have looked like from her perspective: a privileged stay-at-home mom who had nothing better to do than stroll through aisles full of things we probably didn’t need.

Little did she know that I was operating on zero sleep and had spent the entire night sobbing.

Little did she know that it took everything in me to get dressed that day and that the makeup I wore was a mask for my swollen eyes and broken heart.

Little did she know that less than 24 hours before, I sat in a cold, dark ultrasound room while a doctor told me and my husband that the child in my womb would likely face challenges ranging from brain damage and paralysis to secondary medical conditions and lifelong disabilities.

Little did she know I how scared I was, how inadequate I felt, or how much I needed something—anything—to reassure me that everything was going to be okay.

Of course, the woman in Target couldn’t have known all that. She couldn’t have known that my world was in a tailspin. She couldn’t have known how much her smile would have mattered.

The truth is, we don’t wear signs when something bad happens or when we are hurting. Most of the time, we wear armor built of fake smiles and makeup and clothes that make us feel good. Most of the time, we are just trying to make it through the day and clinging to anything that gives us hope.

That day in Target taught me a valuable lesson I will never forget. Every time I fall into the trap of comparing someone else’s seemingly perfect life to mine, I remind myself that I don’t know the whole story. Instead of jumping to shallow conclusions, I try to look at others with compassion in my eyes and empathy in my heart.

Only God knows the depths of someone’s story, which is probably why He doesn’t just ask us to choose compassion; He commands it.

Colossians 3:12 tells us:
“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

Like clothing, these are qualities the Lord wants us to put on every day. Not just to make us better people, but to help others who might be struggling. No one should have to earn our compassion. We should give it
freely and generously so that we can offer hope to a hurting heart that might be barely hanging on.

We are all dealing with something hard, which is exactly why we need each other—not to compare or compete against, but to cheer on and encourage.

****

As believers, may we choose to put on compassion today, without judgement and without the need for explanation. May we look beyond the armor and the lattes and care because it is what we are called to do.

May we position our hearts outward and hold space for those we encounter, even when we don’t know the whole story.

And when we can, may we offer a listening ear, a hopeful word, and at the very least, kind eyes and a gentle smile.

You never know when that could be the very thing someone needed to make it through the day.

Archives for 2022

An Unexpected Christmas Gift

Putting on Compassion