There’s this thing about the human body: it is a complex, complicated thing. I know. So scientific, right? Where’s my Nobel Peace Prize, John Nash?
And because of its glorious intricacies, the idea of our accidental existence is unfathomable to me. God, a creative God, is evident in each perplexing detail. And the study of this God has led me to believe that not only is He a purposeful and artistic God, but He is also a very fond God.
I know this. I KNOW this. (Did you hear that, heart? Brain says we KNOW this.)
Despite my knowledge that God is quite fond of His creation, His puzzling, mysterious, esoteric creation, I also know, more consistently, how devastating it can be when a piece of that creation doesn’t seem to work right.
What do I know more? Do I know God’s goodness more deeply than my anxiety?
And so the pull begins, more tautly, more recently.
In February, Bug was given a tentative All-Clear sign regarding his epilepsy. After two years of being seizure-free and an EEG within normal limits, his neurologist gave us the hope that he might be one of the slim majority of kids who outgrow their epilepsy with minimal treatment. Over the following six weeks, we slowly weaned him from his medication with the knowledge that up to 40% of children relapse within the first two years, with the hope that he would find himself in the 60%.
Two nights ago, Bug and I were curled up on the open, cool space of the bathroom floor, waiting for the seizure to begin.
I am thankful that his precursor to a seizure is lengthy, that I have time to prepare his body and my heart for what is about to happen, that the warning sign of an oncoming epileptic episode is a bright and flashing red, that I can keep him safe while his brain reboots. I am thankful that I have his neurologist on speed dial, that she is warm and understanding and involved and brilliant. I am thankful that my own brain is packed with information and experience and knowledge that I can recall with ease in the thick of uncertainty. I am thankful that we now know he has not outgrown his epilepsy, instead of spending the following years holding our breaths, wondering and waiting if it will strike again. I am thankful that he has epilepsy, and not a heart defect.
I am thankful that I am smaller than the God who created such a complex organ, that I am more ignorant than the God who knows every cell of my son’s body, that I am not the one in charge of healing, because I would make a mess of things. I am thankful that the God who designed my son with a clear and grand purpose in mind also makes it His purpose to be my Comfort.
I am thankful, at least for today.