His mind and body had only just given way to slumber last night when the convulsion attacked. There is something primally heartbreaking about seizures wrenching him from sleep.
Tears don't come often anymore, but when they do it's torrential. I laid in bed and wept half the night away. I wept for his physical suffering; visions of his confused face still swimming in my mind. I wept for Bristel, whose love held her in the room until it was over even though her dad and I were both there. I wept for Tobin, who sauntered in from a youth group outing, only to watch his face fill with knowing sadness when his eyes fell on the rescue meds still lying haphazardly on the chair. I wept for my husband, who I knew would spend the night restlessly trying to sleep while waiting to feel the bed shaking. I wept for the selfish way my heart deals with his disease, often despairing far more than he does. I wept with how I wrestle with the truth that he is not mine, never was, and believing he is far more loved than I begin to understand. I wept as a deep feeling rose up that I would wake in the morning to find he was gone and I should have kissed him so much more. Weeping, I fought the urge to run to him and hold him close, kissing every inch of his face, because I knew he needed rest.
Every beat of my heart, "Lord, I believe. Help Thou my unbelief!"
This morning he wonders why he's so tired. He doesn't remember. In fact, he insists we're wrong. He didn't have a seizure, stated forcefully, almost angry. I'm not arguing with him, but I am kissing him often. Grateful that he lets me and for another day.
Comments