Questioning Authority: What Higher Power?

In my youth, I was quite healthy. I had more than my fair share of the common cold but nothing a small investment in Kleenex couldn’t contain. Never broke a bone, never needed stitches. I was so lucky. Must be good genes.

The dream was to have my good genes and my husbands healthy genes pass down to our children. I figured our kids would take an occasional trip to urgent care for an ear infection, a need for stitches on an elbow, and maybe strep a few times. That’s normal for kids, right?

How about 2 rounds of stitches in 3 weeks? How about a major non-life-threatening chronic disease diagnosed every 6 months for 6 years? How about one of those being moderate asthma? How about another being a severe allergy to fish? How about autism, reflux, ADHD, sensory processing disorder, language processing disorder, alarming weight loss, strabismus surgery, more medications than any one form has space for, and a broken foot from the pool (who breaks a foot in a pool?)? Are those all normal?

Lemme tell you something. Lemme tell you a few somethings, actually. I am not an expert by any means on these ailments but I come damn close. Just one of my beautiful children has had to deal with the entire list above.

Why.


Why?

Each time my child was diagnosed with something else I grew more and more angry at God for inflicting this much on one small child. Yes, I’ll admit I have had my fair share of “Why me?” moments and frankly I’m a mother, I’m allowed a few of those. But I’m beyond that.

How did God allow my body to create such havoc in my child’s? Why does God think this little being, this blue-eyed, compassionate, forgiving, teaching child should have to put up with all this garbage? It’s all garbage. None of it has defined him as a person. None of it created his compassion or his big blue eyes or his love for family.

Or was God or any god involved at all?

If God was watching over my child, wouldn’t things have been different? Didn’t he hear all my prayers? My cries to him? My silent chats with him? I had long, constant conversations with him for years and today as I write this…well. I don’t sense that he is with my child or has heard my cries. I don’t feel his presence anymore.

Does this make me a critic? A hypocrite? If he is here with me, where is a sign? I’ve asked for a sign and my child keeps getting more health issues.

So tell me. What am I missing? Am I missing anything? Was I speaking to him wrong? Not enough? Too much?

And does publicly blogging on this topic make others feel differently about me?

Eight Years Later

On the infamous morning eight years ago today, I was slowly waking up looking forward to another beautiful fall day with my newborn son. He was 3 weeks old, already had big, beautiful, strikingly blue eyes ready to melt me upon entering his room. The house was quiet although I could hear birds outside and life was content.

Life in Suburb, Midwest, was carrying on. Then my husband called and said to turn on the tv. Didn’t matter what channel, just turn it on. It took me several minutes to register what I was actually watching.

Among thoughts of rage and not understanding who could possibly be angry enough to kill so many so violently, my early thoughts went immediately to children and babies who had moms and dads in those planes and buildings. There I sat with my newborn tightly in my arms, tears streaming down my face wishing time could go in reverse.

My bundle of innocence and beauty wasn’t old enough to remember what happened that day. He wasn’t old enough to understand what life was like before the threat of terrorism was everywhere, what it meant by having our country under orange alert and not knowing if we should fear it, and not having Bin Laden become the ultimate game of hide and seek.

On this day eight years after the devastating change our country experienced, I remember those who gave their lives to helping save victims. I remember those who tried to escape and couldn’t. I remember those who did escape and now have nightmares. I remember children who lost a parent. I reflect on what it means to be proud of my country.