pieces and ponderings

I was reminded yesterday of one of the hardest parts of being a mom…watching our children hurt.  We want to fix things when our kids hurt…we want to make things right…we want to take the hurt away…we may want to hurt whomever or whatever is causing the pain, but, in many situations, we simply can’t.  We can only be there and offer hugs and maybe band-aids or listening ears or tears or reassuring smiles letting them know that they will get through the difficulty.

I was also reminded that these times of pain, which none of us like, can usher us into holy places…places of being close-by while someone we love immensely is suffering.  That is one of the privileges of being a parent, to be available to our children when they are hurting.

Last summer I spent 8 days in a holy place, the seizure monitoring ward of a teaching hospital.  It didn’t look like a holy place when we arrived there on a Monday morning and passed through the large hospital door that had a “sleep deprive” sign on it.  It didn’t seem like a holy place as the nurse pointed out the camera that would be viewing us 24/7 and the microphone that was in the ceiling so that every sound could be heard at the nurses’ station.  It didn’t feel like a holy place as I watched the technician glue 34 electrodes to my daughter’s head.

It felt more like a scary place because we didn’t know what to expect…and seizures are scary and that was why we were there, so seizures could be monitored and information could be gathered that might be valuable in helping with her treatment.

The first day turned into night, but there was no sleeping because sleep deprivation is one of the things that is done to try to cause a seizure.  Sleep was finally allowed in the early hours of the morning.

Day number 2 brought with it strobe lights in our room and hyperventilation techniques because these things might cause seizures also.  Later a recumbent bike was rolled into our room and my daughter would spend lots of time on it, pushing herself physically, trying to stress her body.

The days went on like this for over a week.  I left the room only to walk briskly to the cafeteria, pick up some food and walk briskly back to our room.

My daughter and I talked a lot…watched a lot of movies…played a lot of cards…worked word search puzzles.  We watched and waited.  Our stay lasted eight days…no seizures ever occurred.  It wasn’t the summer vacation we would have chosen…there was no beach or tropical breezes.

Toward the end of our stay, probably around day 5 or 6, is when I realized that this hospital room where we were stuck,  was a type of holy place…a place of great vulnerability for my daughter…a place of her suffering…and not many could enter into that place.  It was a privilege to be able to share that with her. Sharing in someone’s suffering is sharing in a holy place.

Hurting places come in all shapes and sizes.  When a child is small it may be when he falls down and scrapes his knee.  When they are a little older it may be watching them endure mean things that other kids say.  When they are even older, it may mean watching them experience unfairness or broken hearts or physical pain.  As a parent we sometimes have a front row seat on the pain that our children might have to endure.  We don’t want them hurting no matter what is causing the pain.  We want to intervene.  We want to exchange places with them and endure the pain instead of them.  But that isn’t the role we have…instead, we have the role of watching and waiting and praying and listening and crying and encouraging.

It is hard watching someone suffering…but it can also be a place of great intimacy…a holy place reserved only for a few and God Himself.