I have to write this now while I believe it. Because when it comes time to live it tomorrow morning at 5:45, I’ll need to already have it etched in my soul.
When it comes time to board the plane waiting for us in the still dark night, I need to believe that I’ve had enough sleep.
When it comes time to hug my 5-year-old goodbye for who knows how long, I’ll need to know she’ll be loved enough while I’m gone.
When it comes time to kiss my husband farewell to live separate lives fighting for our daughter’s life, I’ll need to be reassured that we’re both doing enough to care for our family.
When it comes time to check into Annie’s CHOP hospital room tomorrow afternoon that is currently reserved for us, I’ll need to convince both of us that we’re brave enough to live there again.
When it comes time to listen to the doctors about Annie’s care, I need to know that they’re smart enough and caring enough to partner with me in advocating for her life.
It’s no secret that I regularly ask God for something else. For extra. For another. For more.
-More time as a family of 4 together.
-Better health for Annie.
-Extra joy so that she doesn’t know what’s happening to her failing body.
-Another chance to love her well and enjoy her for a too-short moment
-Even just one more day that she wakes up healthy enough, and I wake up brave enough, to do it all over again.
What I’ve been reminded of lately is that even though I want so much more than what I’m right now getting, what God gives is always enough.
He’s giving us enough courage to do what He’s calling us to do. He’s giving us enough clarity to know which route to take. He’s giving us enough financial provision to travel across the country for Annie’s care. He’s giving us more days, more doctors, more possible solutions for more time with Annie.
Annie is sick. So sick that I don’t want tomorrow to ever come. I’m afraid of what the doctors will say when we check into the 6th floor. I’m afraid of the truth about what’s wrecking Annie’s body. I’m afraid of what feels like too few options we might have left.
I want to stay here in the hallway eavesdropping on Audrey reading. I want to stay here in the hallway watching Annie sleep. But as cozy as it feels, it’s not safe here for Annie anymore.
So Annie’s button down pjs are zipped up tight, ready to be secured over IV lines tomorrow. My travel shampoo bottles are filled, ready to be perched on hospital bathtub edges. Our fuzzy slippers are squished down in, ready for snuggling and healing in the eerie safety of a Philadelphia hospital room.
And in 12 short hours, tomorrow will surely come. But I can be certain that even though I feel so not ready, that what God gives will be enough.