Golden

It is that beautiful hour now. The golden time just before sunset. I think someone once called it the gloaming. The wind whispers through the budding trees. Underneath the soft swaying branches three earnest little pilgrims go on about their daily work. The oldest, brave adventurer sister leads the way, calling out tasks for the younger boys; gather a rock here, a twig there. They are all busily constructing some imaginary playhouse or hideaway, a castle, a cabin, a kingdom all their own. Nearby sits their great white protector and friend, calmly enduring his nightly fur brushing. Their daddy and oft favored playmate smiles at their antics and stops to swing one up on his shoulder or admire a newly caught butterfly.

Everything is still and ripe and golden. The world seems new and untouched. And it is for them. They haven't yet encountered the dragons, the destruction of their castles in the air, the loss of their surety as they canvass the road before them. And it should be like that. The world should still be fresh and budding, ripe with the promise of adventure and full to the brim with hopefulness. The rosyness should still be glistening on the earth they trod. Tinges of sadness and bitterness and regret they partake of each day. And that is good as well. They must learn early to drink the cup-bitter and sweet. Mourn the losses, hold onto the hope. Shake their heads and sorrow at the cracked earth they trod, yet ever looking towards the horizon. The great things to come.

As I sit writing the sun is sinking, casting its rays on the sleeping boy in the swing nearby. Growing and changing by leaps and bounds. How was it only 7 months ago we casually strolled in for a check up and ended up staying to witness a miracle?

Parenting is the hardest gig I've ever experienced. The joys are rainbow rich and the sorrows and sacrifices cut me to the quick. The whys, the whatifs, the unanswered questions often keep me awake at night. I have been so in and out, forever and completely altered by this experience that I cannot imagine it ever ending. And yet it will. This wild ride will end with its laughs and trials and twists and turns and sky high exhilaration. And my little companions will grow beyond us, beyond this cozy nest and go on their merry way.

But for now things are simpler. Seemingly unchanged and yet changing. Our little girl still runs off with braids flying to catch a lizard, the two brothers still tear around on little bikes with teddy bears tucked in for a ride and my littlest chick still gazes at me like his personal fairy godmother, nestling in the crook of my neck and sighing contentedly. And this tiny world keeps on spinning, still within our grasp. And now seems like forever.

The Other Side

There are moments when I come to realize, truly, viscerally, deep down in my soul realize, just how brief and small my experience is. How limited, a "flash in the pan". How many times I look at people but not into them as someone once said. I don't realize that the woman bagging my groceries so slowly might be suffering her own private heartbreak. I fail to wonder whether the man who cut in front of me at Starbucks might be rushed and terse for reasons other than the need for a caffeine fix.

Never has this hit me with such weight before now. Will was feverish and achy and not quite himself for 3-4 days. We brushed it off as a bug, something minor he picked up at Sunday school or the grocery store. Moments of normality, a laugh, a familiar bout of mischief would ease our worries and lull us into thinking he would get over it on his own.

But late one night we heard his little feet pad into our room and he was heaving and coughing and having trouble breathing. Calmly Tim announced it was time to take him into the ER.

Pneumonia. What followed was a taste, a glimpse into the nightmarish reality that other dear parents and families face daily. With cheeks flushed rosy red and eyes bright with fever Will kissed me goodbye at the door. One of those half open mouth, wet, all over your face kisses that little boys are so good at. "Goodbye Mom, he said, "you know I might not come back.." That completely felled me. After putting on a brave face to wave goodbye to the little blue hooded figure hunched in his carseat, I wrapped my sweater around me and sobbed against the side of the house. Ever one for premonitions and unfounded fears, his parting goodbye filled me with a sense of foreboding.

What followed was a week of early morning doctor visits full of steroid IV's in his legs and upper arms, our countertop littered with assorted meds and eyedroppers and cups. Life as we knew it had ceased to be for those days as sickness moved in close. Will was weak and feverish and gray. At the beginning he battled with us over taking the nasty meds in succession, after a couple of times he didn't even fight anymore. That was when it started to sink in. He was ready to go to bed (willingly) before it was even time for dinner. Often we would turn our backs for a second, get engaged with one of the other children and find he'd already climbed up to bed on his own. Nothing was the same. He didn't want to eat or play, didn't chase the cat or bear hug the dog. He just lay there, hurting, quiet.

At the end of the week what was supposed to be his last round of IV's turned into a hospital stay. My heart caught in my throat as the elevator opened onto the pediatric unit. Never had I thought I'd find myself there, going to visit one of my babies. I had to squeeze back the tears when I walked into the room and saw the tiny little body with an IV in his arm, the curly little brown head on the great big pillow,big brown eyes regarding us as we entered. Putting up with all th nurse and docs and all the meds and prodding and breathing treatments. I stopped asking why, stopped feeling embarassed that maybe this was all my fault because I hadn't been a good enough mother. I was overwhelmed in those moments with sheer gratitude.

I felt thankful-for a husband who helped to shoulder the burden, who handled all the loose ends and questions and gave me a place of solace, who prayed over our little man, who made him laugh, who insisted we still have our family movie Friday together in the hospital. And we did, cozying up around Will's hospital bed with our bowls of ice cream, letting the giggles slip out past the scary questions hovering nearby.

Thankful- for a God that was never more than a whispered prayer away.

Thankful that this chapter of sickness is closed and the brave little hero heads on to his next adventure.