“M-o-o-o-o-m-m-m! Mom! Help! He’s…”
The rest of the sentence was cut off in a breathless pant as my oldest boy ran into the shelter of my arms, and just as quickly shifted to hide himself against my back, effectively placing my body between himself and the force of nature coming at him.
Chase. Angry Chase.
Though Aid stands over a head taller and a year older, he is no match for the fury in Chase’s eyes. I can hear his teeth grind together in his fuzzy head as his fists clench and his voice is a guttural scream: “How. Dare. You!!” He punctuates each word with an angry step as he advances and I can feel Aidan try and curl even further into my back.
One Lego. That’s all it took to produce the fury.
These moments of anger come like a wave, crashing on the shore and then ebbing just as quickly. For this is what it looks like when the damage to a little one’s brain messes with emotional control. Anger – swift, furious, and awful.
After deep breaths, calming phrases and prayer; after hugs and peace-making and promises to use words and not violence in settling the next dispute, the boys go back to playing and I feel the weight pushing on my shoulders as a sigh escapes – a sigh that does little to dispel the tension.
It’s like this all day, every day: fast anger, swift retribution, calming words, rational instructions, make it right…and repeat. Over and over. I don’t possess the wisdom or knowledge to understand what of each interaction is common to raising young children and what comes from deep, cancer survival damage. All I can do is put myself between them (often literally) and talk and pray until they listen.
So I hang my head and as I do, I see Aid, standing in the doorway, his young shoulders slumped like mine.
“What’s up, sweet boy?” I look up and try to paste a smile.
“Why is it so hard?” He answers a question with a question – the son of my heart for sure.
“With Chase…” My words are more a statement than a question for clarification. I know what he means. I can feel it radiating off of him. The frustration and exhaustion on his face a mirror of what I feel in my own heart.
“Honestly, sweet boy, I don’t know. But I know one thing for sure. This is your calling. I’ll be honest with you…” I take a deep breath wondering if these true words will relieve or burden. “Being the brother of Chase is probably one of the very hardest things you’ll ever do or be in your whole life. But it’s something Jesus has for you and it will make you strong in ways you can’t imagine. This is just something you…we…have to do. Jesus will give us the strength.”
He nodded against my arm, having crossed the room for a hug as I spoke to him.
I long to answer his question with a time frame. Just two more weeks of life-rending harsh moments and then you’ll be done… You’ll be strong enough and it won’t hurt like it does now. Ha. But so often, there are no time limits set to our sufferings and hard days. I just want limits so that I can make sense of it all. If it fits in my paradigm, then I don’t have to hold so very fast to the promise that God’s plans are good when I don’t feel or see them being so.
Your hard thing and mine…they are our callings. They aren’t the actions and interactions that keep us from the perfect life – rather; they are most often the God-planned life perfect in and of themselves. And they are ultimately, finally, sometimes-only-at-the-end-of-the-story for our good. So, lean in and learn.
Moment by moment.
September 2
“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11, NLT
“For all the promises of God find their Yes in him. That is why it is through him that we utter our Amen to God for his glory.” 2 Corinthians 1:20, ESV