Outside my room family life goes on as evidenced by the scuffling of two dogs, the clanging of dishes in the sink and the musical notes signifying the end of a wash cycle. But inside, the fan whirs and a sliver of light slashes across the comforter through closed shades where we lay trying to find the calm and quiet. Her head in my lap, my hands in her hair.
I whisper soft words as her whole body trembles and her breath comes fast and choppy. Almost as fast as the tears sliding down her face. I hold her in my arms as I’ve done since they handed all 6lbs 4ozs of her to me. And like too many times in her sweet little life, I can’t make it stop. So I just keep holding her body while it lies to her, stuck in fight or flight mode, and whispering truth to her heart while her mind tries to convince her that her body is right.
“Take deep breaths. There you go.”
And I do it with her because I need them too.
I rub her back and feel her breath hitch as she fights for control.
And I bite my tongue to keep from crying myself.
“You’re okay. You’re safe. Everything is okay.”
“But it’s not.” She says. “It doesn’t feel like it. I don’t understand things. People get mad at me. I make too many mistakes. I need too much. No one stays.”
“You are doing just fine. You are loved exactly as you are. You don’t need too much. I stay. Jesus stays.”
But I’m also entering fight or flight mode because I don’t understand this. Oh, the panic I’ve experienced, but the panic that is a result of mixed up genes and mangled myelin and messy hormones? This I don’t understand and I don’t know what more to do to fix it. We’ve tried all the oils, done all the therapies, taken the walks, ordered the weighted blankets, breathed really deep, talked all the talks, tried the meds, and PRAYED. SO much.
And now I’m the one that is convinced I’m not okay. That I keep making all the mistakes. That I need too much in order to help this girl. So I pray some more. For more help. More wisdom. More ideas. And I ask Him to stay. Because I feel far from okay.
Then, there’s another wave of fear and tears and I pull her closer and whisper, “Do you trust me?” and there is a muffled nod with more than a little snot rubbed into my shirt.
“Do you trust me when I tell you that you’re okay? Do you trust me enough to tell your feelings that they’re wrong, that everything is going to be okay?”
And for just a second I can see it…….
My Father bending over me, bending over her, saying, “Do you trust Me when I tell you that you’re okay? Do you trust Me enough to tell your feelings that they’re wrong, that everything is going to be okay?” And I breathe deeply in unison with Baby Girl and we hold each other as our bodies relax and our heartbeats slow and I praise the One that stays.
I can’t understand it. I can’t fix it. I’m not enough. But I know the One who does understand. I know the One who can fix it. And I know the One who is enough. For both of us.
So we’ll keep trying to figure it out. We’ll keep trying the things. We’ll keep making the mistakes. We’ll keep praying. And we’ll keep trusting the One who holds us. Even when our feelings and bodies tell us differently.