Her radiant smile lit the air around her as if a thousand high wattage bulbs were shining all at once, illuminating a once dark plateau. Her wide eyes gleamed with the excitement bubbling from within her small frame, and I couldn’t help but drink in the intoxicating flavor of her wonder and awe as it ruminated from her very being.
Up. Down. Around we went. I wasn’t sure why I felt the joy, the excitement so much more acutely than usual. We were riding the same circuitous route the mall carousel had always taken before, but it seemed more real, more concrete this time around.
The motion felt so fast and exhilarating, and I could feel the wind of the movement ruffling my hair even as I gazed up at my daughter saddled on her pink steed. Up. Down. Brilliant smile. Three years old and so beautiful. So perfect. So healthy.
I could feel my eyes beginning to sting and water. Perhaps the revolving velocity causing them to tear up? No. The lump presenting in my throat clued me to the cause of my leaky orbits. Up. Down. She was fine.
My first-born child had developed a dark mole on the crown of her head at a mere eight months of age causing me to rush to google for answers of when these skin blemishes first appeared in children. I had watched it off and on over the years, noticing that it grew in size, but concluding that so was her head, so it must be fine.
At the beginning of the week, as I brushed her long, blond hair, my eyes were drawn to the part on top. Surrounding her mole something just didn’t look right. As I paused in my brushing I noticed the surrounding skin was flaking, clumping, almost gummy in appearance, causing me to wonder, why would her skin look so foreign? I touched it and pressed a loose piece between my fingers, amazed as it came apart easily in my pincer grip, lifting from her scalp. My fascination quickly turned to horror as a large portion of her hair, root intact, came off in my hand.
I had waited all week for the appointment with a specialist, referred there after the initial visit to the pediatrician on that first day of discovery. I waited for today, and today he had said she was just fine. She was normal. It wasn’t bad, not like any of the deep fears, although irrational, I had harbored way down inside. It was a nuisance more than anything, a lifetime skin irritation that could be washed away, not like the imagined illness my paranoia had threatened me with. She was fine.
Up. Down. Around we went. I watched her smile, so brilliant, so perfect. The weight of relief fell upon me, so strong, almost crushing in its release. I had not even been aware it was there. I had released it, right? I had given it up to God, yes? That’s what I intended and certainly had been what I thought I had done.
Worry is a first cousin to fear, something I decided I couldn’t let rule me. When confronted with possible serious illness in my child I had felt worry, then fear, bombarding me. So strong, so scary. No! I had cried. And then I had released it to Him, right?
The small stuff is easy once you get in the habit. Throwing up your hands, admitting where you fall short, crying out for help, and renewing a steadfast dependence on the King of All Things! Simple. For the simple things. For the ordinary things. Even for the tough stuff.
Dreams held in limbo? Give it to God! That’s what they say, and completely doable, especially once you feel the freedom of relinquishing control.
But what about the really hard things, the personal calamities that hit too close for comfort, rudely reminding you of the frailty of life? Are these things just too real, too painful, and not like the easy examples depicted in your Bible study?
Had I released it? Had I really? Had I fallen flat on my face admitting, Oh dear God! No! I cannot, cannot handle that! In the unfathomable agony of potential loss had I ran away instead of to? Had I crushed the idea, or perhaps pushed it away, squirreling it into the recesses of my brain, where other unimaginables sat on a shelf?
What if there is more to releasing your fear, your anxieties, your problems to God than simply saying, it’s ok. I’m not worried. He’s got this. And then blanketing your thoughts with pretty little flowers of happier things.
What if releasing means facing, not just sweeping it away? What if it means falling at His feet and saying whatever the outcome, I will praise you still. What if it means admitting your finite understanding, but being okay with that? Admitting that it hurts, the thoughts of something so hard, but you still shout He reigns!!
Does this mean praising in the storm, not just the sunshine? Does this mean saying I’m blessed even if you’re hurting? What if full release to the perfecter of all things is just that?
Perhaps if it is then when it goes up, down, round and round, and you feel the tears, you will know. You will know in your very soul that He holds you through it all. Good. Bad. Up. Down. He still reigns.
So hard to release it “even if.” As if maintaining the thoughts of an unwanted outcome can somehow maintain control of the situation and prevent the bad.
But He is good. Maybe full release is remembering that. He is good. I trust because He is good. I release because He is good. I cannot imagine how. But He can. I fall down in surrender, in worship, “even if.”
Not easy. Letting go never is, especially if it’s an imagined goodbye.
As we walked away hand in hand, my healthy girl running ahead towards the next sight of fun, I wondered, how will I respond if there’s a next time?
Thankful? Yes! Blessed? Of course. Always in praise? Indeed.
I’m learning as I go.