(Excerpt from Weak and Loved: A Mother-Daughter Love Story.)
Written July 14, 2009
It was the evening before surgery. I knew the next day would be one of those days by which we mark time. July 14 would be our last day “before Aggie’s brain surgery,” and everything that was to come would be known as time “after Aggie’s brain surgery.” How should we spend one last night “before surgery” with our sick little Aggie?
We took Aggie on a walk to Lake Erie
in the afternoon. We let her run around in the grass and the sunshine. I chased
her and gave her a good (last?) wrestling
match. Later in the hotel room, we had a feast with fried chicken and chocolate
milk and a ridiculous amount of candy. Friends came to see her, grandparents,
and big sister Lorraine. They all got to squeeze in a few (last?) tickles and snuggles and hugs. I took lots of video, just
in case. I joined the others in trying to infuse that one evening with all the
life and fun that we could.
I couldn’t help
but notice that Aggie did not feel the weight of those moments as we did. She
had no desire to soak up each little experience, to store them away somewhere
just in case things never returned to normal. She did not breathe in the fresh
air deeply enough, she did not enjoy her last evening with hair as I would if I
were her. She was just being a kid; bouncing from one thing to the next,
fluttering around as if this were just another day, taking those everyday
blessings—the sunshine, the wind in her hair, the running and playing—for
granted.She knows what is coming tomorrow, yet she sleeps soundly.
And why should she worry? God who gave her joy in the sunshine today will hold her close in the valley tomorrow.
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God restored Aggie to health through that surgery.
This weekend, we remember the fragility of Aggie and all of our children, and we celebrate this moment of health and life that we share because of His grace.