The Cry of a Mother's Heart
At this time last year I had sat up all night, driven the hour to Chicago, wondering if my child - man-child, but still child - would be alive to greet me on the other side. The moments in the E.R. were stunning, shocking, bewildering. I barely spoke a word. When it was almost time to move him to the helipad, I stood by Timo and stroked his head. In the previous few years he had not been very conversant with me. (Parents who have never had teenage boys: this is normal, not a sign of distress, but a development where they want to make their own way in life. This is not to say they don't need us, and our input - they do, but the dynamics change). I often overstepped bounds with him, and frustrated him. I tried to give him space, but there were times my fears took over. Our relationship was not strained - he knew I loved him, he knew my care for him. But Mothers are often not easy for teenage boys. There's hardly a way around that. We birthed them. We KNOW, KNOW, KNOW them. It's a fact they can't escape. They almost don't want to be known by us; want to hide their vulnerable self from our loving gaze. And the Mother in me won't let my gaze off him.
And there I stood, with that loving, sad, worried, gaze, and he looked up at me and said the words, "Will you pray for me?"
Such beautiful words. Profound. Simple. Stunning.
I placed my hand gently on his head, and began to pray aloud. I don't remember exactly what I prayed, but it went something like this: "Oh Faithful God, You are the One Who created Timo. You see him now; You see his body, how broken it is. You see his life, a life precious to You, and to us. Will You protect him? Give Timo peace; bring him comfort, heal his body. Will you give wisdom to doctors, skill to nurses, and will you surround him with Your kindness and mercy. Will You show Timo how much You love and care for him? Go with him now and keep him safe on the flight. In the name of Your Son, Jesus, Who suffered and died so we might live, I pray, Amen."
As I prayed a single tear trickled down my cheek. I did not know what I was encountering. How my son flew through the air at 50 mph, launching 20 feet high and flipping vertically over outstretched arms, breaking both, and then skidding a number of feet. I couldn't wrap my head around how he had then seen oncoming traffic, realized he hadn't died yet, but was about to for the second time in 10 seconds. How he then realized he had only one option to live: to use all his effort to quickly roll across two lanes, hoping to miss the cars, and roll over the curb to the grass. How in that moment, before he rolled, before I knew he was hit, before he was able to call me, I was in that moment praying for his protection and safety. The moment he rolled I was laying my head on my pillow, thinking of Timo, turning my fears and worries to God. "I will not fear. I will trust You: O God, protect my boy." I have no doubt God was hearing every prayer I prayed. In the coming days I would learn just how much God had been hearing me.
You see, prayer is quite a mystery. It is a total act of faith - to speak to an unseen God, to trust He hears - and beyond that, cares, to hold our concerns, queries, doubts, hopes, fears. It is almost a foolish waste of words, if it weren't an actual reality - this God Who holds every tear we cry and collects them in His bottle. Yes, that God. If He isn't real, prayer is simply a joke. My life has been framed by prayer. Not because I have tried, or am a saint, or have some monastic inclination (though I certainly do, as I trace my journey back). It has been framed by prayer because of need - of soulful, sorrowful, desperate, helpless, yearning and grief. From my earliest days as a young child, I learned that God must hear and know me, and so I began from perhaps the age of 5 or so to call out to Him always. The things we teach children matter so profoundly. I had been taught that a) God is real, b) He hears me when I pray, whether aloud or in my head, and, c) He cares about everything I think, feel, and do. With these truths in hand, I realized I might as well talk to this Great Being Who inhabited the sky, the heavens above, Who sits on a glorious throne and rules through all the world - yet in strange and unfathomable ways.
So I spoke to God, there in the E.R. I called on Him to watch over my boy. And God heard my prayer.
I continue to pray for Timo. I continue to carry burdens that every mother carries, and then some. Burdens mothers of special needs' children carry. Hidden trials we can't speak of. Not only for Timo, but for my other children as well.
And it seems God has called me to a ministry of prayer and mothering, beyond my 5 children. I pray for those who meet with me for spiritual direction. I listen and yearn with and for them, for the powerful intervention, presence, and purpose of God in their lives. I can do no else, because it is inherent in my being to pray.
When the sun rose on September 1st we were still in the E.R. holding room. I had slept maybe an hour or so, stretched across three hard-framed chairs. I was still wearing that purple skirt.
But Timo was alive. And that's all that mattered to me at that moment. My son was alive.
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