I’ve been a bit pensive this past couple of days.

Right after I wrote a post about routine, Patrick came down with a cold. You know, just a routine cold with runny nose and cough. Just like everyone else has right now.

Only I thought I was justified in being miserable about it. I even composed a wonderful tangent about how much more worry and grief and sorrow accompany a cold when it’s Patrick sick with it. (Which is, by the way, still true as any illness causes major gut complications.. but still, altogether, irrelevant.)

We took a couple of sick days where we did nothing but wipe noses and steam heads and read books and drain bellies and watch kid shows on netflix and treat diaper rash and play with toy cars and sleep and take Patrick’s temperature every hour or two and fret about whether or not we should tell someone medically trained that Patrick was sick.

His nose got better, but then the cold hit his gut and it started to be hard to sleep at night and yet, for all he was tired, Patrick didn’t want to nap during the day. On back to back days I spent HOURS trying to rock Patrick to sleep only to give up and let Brian do it instead.

Oh – and Brian had to work overtime because he’s transitioning into his new job.

And Patrick was so tired and grumpy that he didn’t want to do anything I said. I didn’t feel good and he just wanted to do what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. I was convinced I was failing as a mother.

And I felt completely justified in being miserable.

And I wondered where my miracle was.

And then one of my very dear friends learned in an ultrasound that the baby she is expecting this summer has a birth defect that could be an isolated problem or could be a sign of a larger illness.

And then, another dear friend lost a second daughter to a cruel and unrelenting congenital illness.

I regained my perspective.

C.S. Lewis wrote:

“Little people like you and me, if our prayers are sometimes granted, beyond all hope and probability, had better not draw hasty conclusions to our own advantage. If we were stronger, we might be less tenderly treated. If we were braver we might be sent, with far less help, to defend far more desperate posts in the great battle.”

When you live a life filled with daily miracles, it is easy to take them for granted. It is easy to feel yourself forsaken when a loving Master doesn’t pave over every pothole in the road. Sometimes, when things are hard, despite prayers and hope and unwavering faith, it is because He knows we are stronger and braver than we think we are.

I have watched in wonder as my friend has humbly and trustingly returned another daughter to arms of her Heavenly Father. I am not yet that strong.

I have been very tenderly treated.

And, as I have watched these friends’ grace in loss, I am more thankful for the gift of a cheerful, lively, happy toddler. I am more determined to make each moment matter. I want to be more graceful and more gracious. I am seeking more Divine help.

So that I may, at least, live worthy of my post.

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