April 30

It's been a heartbreaking kind of week in a lot of ways. Several people who are special to me have gotten terrible news, and it's painful to watch anyone you care about try to digest unwanted life-altering bits of information. It's hard to know that struggles loom for them. It's hard to know what to say or do.

In light of that, I was just sitting here in our family room when I became keenly aware of the sound of the clock on the wall. I don't think about that clock very often; on most days, its rhythmic tick-tock fades into obscurity amid the ongoing din of routine existence. But not tonight.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I know something about myself: time is one of the things I'm most likely to take for granted. I'm always telling the kids "okay, give me five minutes while I finish what I'm doing" and then suddenly it's 20 minutes later and I still haven't moved. I'm not as good at living in the moment as I'd like to be. So right now, in this reflective moment while I call out to God and ask Him to be with my friends who are in the midst of being pressed by some of life's more challenging ringers, I'm thankful for the tender, quiet, steady reminder to really, truly live, breathe, and exist through every second of every day.

April 29

Today, I planned to go to Children's Hospital, spend an hour or so visiting with Abby's friend (who is currently a patient there dealing with a medical issue) and her grandma, and then head home around noon. But it didn't go that way.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. When I found out last night that M was there, I texted her grandma to ask if I could visit, and she responded enthusiastically to the offer. So I made arrangements for Brady to have lunch at preschool, and hit the road at about 9:30. As I drove northward, I ruminated over the past; over the many, many times I'd made that very drive to see Logan while he was there. I wondered how it would feel to be back on the 5th floor; the floor where he'd spent so many weeks and months as his treatment protocol was carried out. A place I hadn't been since the last time he was discharged to go home with us three years ago.

But I went. After an unsuccessful effort to visit a friend in another building, I went up to her room. It was quiet and dark and M appeared to be resting, but I quickly learned that she'd just suffered a seizure -- her first ever. So I'd missed the chaos by about five minutes. (Which, incidentally, is how long I took trying to see my friend.) I talked briefly with her grandma, then sat next to M to tell her that Abby said hi and that she'd written her a long letter to read when she felt up to it. She was very out of it and tired, but she nodded.

A few minutes later, as her nurse was trying to give her a cup of medicine, she had another seizure. I hopped out of the way, and stood behind her grandma. And I prayed. I prayed for the Holy Spirit to come down. I assured her grandma that Jesus was present. I rubbed her back and just prayed.

And finally it stopped, and her grandma asked me if I could sit with M while she made some calls. So I did. The nurse turned to me, and said "you know, I think it was Providence that you showed up when you did."

Kind of a funny thing to say, but I think it's true. It was hard to see her in that moment; to see her body betraying her in such an ugly way. But I felt blessed to be there to support both of them. I felt blessed to be so familiar with the hospital that I could be calm. I felt blessed to think that Logan was there, in whatever way possible, trying to help M out (because I think --I really, really think-- that she was in the very first room that he stayed in after his very first admission).

Anyway, the second seizure earned her a ticket to the PICU. The PICU. Where Logan spent his final days on this earth. Where I hadn't been since February 11, 2012. I was a little scared to go. I'd been worried about being on the 5th floor again, where there were happy times and where I can still, on the little theater screen in my mind, see him wearing a pair of Cars pajamas and be-boppin' down the hall with his IV poll in tow and riding around in the little red and yellow car from the play room and making crafts out of pipe cleaner and glitter glue. But I knew I could handle it. I wasn't sure that I could handle the PICU.

But I did. And even though M's spot backed up to the room where Logan spent his last hours, that space didn't own me. It didn't creep me out or make my skin crawl. I didn't freak out or cry hysterically. I sat for a few hours while her grandma got some much-needed time away. And I was okay. Legitimately okay.

I think we all want to know, on some level or another, that we're okay. And I think that those unexpected experiences today proved to me that I'm okay. Life will never be perfect. It will never feel complete without my Sunshine here with me. But it can still be good, and the things that have dogged me in the past don't own my future. And knowing that is one of the biggest blessings of all.

April 28

This dude always makes my life better, but today, he managed to make it a little easier, too.

With my allergies flaring big time, I knew I had to head to the doctor's office. I'm always a little apprehensive about taking the kids with me, because medical offices are boring. (Even for me sometimes.) And wait times can be long. And boring. And tedious. (And boring.) But as it happened, I had zero reason for concern. My muffin was a model four-year old, sitting patiently in the waiting room, quietly in the exam room when I talked with the PA, and quietly again as I talked with the doctor.

Those moments when the kids are quiet and well-behaved make me heart so happy because they're huge, huge blessings.

April 27

I've had better days. Since apparently the stomach flu wasn't enough, my allergies got really, really bad today, so I wasn't spending much time concentrating on anything other than, well, breathing. But this evening, as we drove home from Costco, the lovely sunset sky caught my attention.

A fleeting but beautiful thing that gave me a moment's respite. Sometimes, that's all it takes to transform a day from "ho hum" to "wow."

April 26

When Brady first showed signs of illness last week, Abby freaked out about catching the bug. She hid in her room most of the time and even arranged a bucket system: she used a jump rope to lower a small, empty toy bin to the first floor and asked that all communication happen through said bin. (Yes, we thought it was funny.) Anyhow, more than anything, I think she was worried about being unable to take dance pictures today. Thankfully, we made it.

I felt almost normal when I got up this morning, so we got our purple-y fringed tank tops on and joined the other mommy/daughters for the photo. Then a little later, she donned her tap costume (which she confessed that despite previous protestations, she actually likes... go figure; that never happens...) and we headed back to the studio for that one, too.

Time with my one and only girl... priceless.

April 25

Much to my chagrin, I wound up catching the stomach bug that left Brady sidelined for part of Wednesday. So here's where I spent most of my day:

Not feeling so good really takes me back to the basics when it comes to gratitude. So today, I'm grateful for my bed, for layers of sheets and blankets that I can take off and re-add on a whim, for my ginger ale-and-crackers toting husband, and finally, for the blessing of down-time, even though I had to be sick to get it.

April 24

It was quite windy out today. As I walked to pick up Abby from school, I saw a butterfly (or maybe a moth; I've never been good at telling them apart) swirling and flitting in the breeze. Eventually, it came to a landing on a bush. My heart sighed a little while I took a closer look and saw that part of her wing was missing.

The poor little thing, I thought. It must be hard to get anywhere --much less stay on track-- with a broken wing and such unfriendly wind pushing her in directions she probably doesn't want to explore.

As I walked off, it came to me that I've been like that little bug. Broken --not merely broken, actually, but forever changed by my circumstances-- but still intent on flying and going about my days, doing what needs to be done. That desire --and the strength-- to keep going despite our brokenness... it definitely comes from God.