God of My Children

Nil per os. A Latin phrase meaning “nothing by mouth.”

For six days, an NPO sign has been on my two year old’s hospital room door. The sign will stay up for another two days. She is recovering from colorectal surgery, and her fragile system requires it. Dextrose, sodium chloride, and potassium flow from an IV bag to a PICC line to nourish and hydrate her tiny, 21-pound body.

It seems cruel and unusual punishment for a little person and her “show love with food” momma. With pleading eyes, she asks, “Loller? Mom, loller?” Her fingers make a W against her chin signing, “Water?” I melt inside, divert my eyes from her confused expression, and distract with toys.

God sometimes allows our tender spots to be punctured. My heart is most fragile for my kids, and as much as I want them to be off limits, they aren’t. When they are vulnerable, this momma bear stands at attention. Yet, slowly, I’m learning to release my grip and trust more.
  
For my first years of parenting, I lived contently with the illusion that I could protect my kids. That it was me, myself, and I who met needs. I planned their days, fed their bodies, and claimed full control of their little lives.

I let myself believe that I was their God.

Then, little by little, I’ve surrendered them. God pierced holes in my control bubble. First came surrenders to inevitable backyard scraps and playground hurt feelings. Then to Kindergarten classrooms and the deep end of the pool, watching from afar. We mommas must choose between hovering overhead to insulate them from bruises, bee stings, and bullies or releasing them to the adventure of fields, trees, swing sets, and new people.

The Lord has pressed into my control illusion, increasingly asking for wider submission. Next, a mission trip put an ocean between mother and children. I labored over leaving, and planned every activity, outfit, and meal they’d have. To board the plane, I had to sever more control. And when I returned? I found new independence, new appreciation for me, and new connection with grandparents.
  
Then came hurts that couldn’t be treated by Tylenol, infections not cured by amoxicillin. First was elbow surgery for one daughter, then spine and two bladder surgeries for another. Walking away utterly helpless from my child lying limp under anesthesia in operating rooms filled with computer screens, instruments, and doctors in sterile scrubs, left me defenseless.

Each experience challenges who I think God is to my kids.

Read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine.