It was her eyes that broke me.
Looking into mine. Brimming with tears. Holding hurt in every blink.
I cupped her face and pressed my forehead against hers and whispered, “I’m so sorry, love. But I’m right here and I will carry this with you.”
Test after test. Appointment after appointment. Poke after poke.
We had come to find a tender understanding of one another in this place.
A place that knew fear and uncertainty. A place that brought tears and laughter. A place where light and love could coexist with suffering and pain. Tucked in-between all that is bittersweet and sacred and known by a name all too familiar.
Chronic illness.
I had walked nearly 20 years in its wake. But this was different. This was harder. This was tender. Because this was my baby.
So I found myself wrestling with fear and anger and the in-between of guilt and grief. The doubt of all I should have done swirling around in my mama’s heart. A battle that felt too big to fight.
But somewhere in the middle of all its ugliness, we have found each other.
In early morning car trips to the hospital. In the counting and care of the ridiculously-sized mother and daughter pillboxes. In the see-you-soon hugs before she’s wheeled off to a procedure room. In the moments where her tears stop and mine somehow begin.
It’s just us.
Me and my girl holding onto hope together.
It is not the road I would have chosen but it is every bit the destination.
A place where we see Jesus just a little more clearly. A place where He is big enough for all our fear and doubt. A place where we have felt Him bend down hands to our faces, forehead to forehead if only to whisper, “I’m so sorry, loves. But I’m right here and I will carry this with you.”
Test after test. Appointment after appointment. Poke after poke.
Two steps forward, three steps back and all that is in-between.
Standing in front of whatever comes next but all the while reaching for the One who catches each tear and leads us to a place where brutal can be beautiful too.