Let me tell you a story.

Last month I had my birthday. Yay! The weather predicted snow, so there was no school; while we waited for the snow to start, we all went out to lunch. As we drove away from the restaurant, the first big, fluffy flakes started to fall.  Then we had fun out there in the snow.

That evening, I shuffled the girls into bed, tucked them in, kissed them and gave them hugs and prayers and turned on their music. Then I hurried to the kitchen and assembled a happy little wine and cheese and bread feast so hubby and I could enjoy a quasi date in the quiet.  I’ve decided that Malbec is my very favorite red wine. Not that I know a whole lot of other options, but still; I’m just proud of myself for knowing another kind of red wine. It makes me feel smart. Then I discovered that red wine isn’t really supposed to go with standard snacking cheese, so I was in a bit of a conundrum, but I cared not. I added grapes and bread, and called it macaroni.  I think I was getting ready to take a picture, then the storm started.

It was a storm of a 5-year-old losing her dinner. It went off and on through the night; she was fine for a while, so yes, we did consume the snacks I’d set out, but it was more to keep it from being wasted than for enjoyment.

Over the next 8 hours we got about 3 hours of rest. We eventually pulled her mattress off her bed frame and laid it next to ours so it was easy to help her. I had to get up and out the door for her parent-teacher conference before school–which she obviously would not be attending. I put on makeup purely for the sake of its face-saving qualities, and practiced my chipper voice in the car on the way to school.

By the way, our whole family adores our kindergarten teacher this year.  She enjoys our daughter, too, which helps. So we had a brief and cheerful meeting, in which we discussed a) how awful it is when kids are sick, b) how sweet my little girl is and how when she’s an adult, she will be my friend, c) how artistic she is and how writing words and getting assignments done in a certain time frame kind of cramps her style.  That’s when my phone started going off and it was my husband saying he thinks we need to take a trip to the doctor or urgent care. Welp, that wraps up our conference.

So my tired little kindergartener went off with her daddy to see the doctor, while I stayed home with the younger one. She would have gone to school, had she not been up through the night coughing and sneezing. Really, can’t all nights be so fun?

A few hours later, they hadn’t gotten back yet. “She’s dehydrated, so they gave her an IV. If she can hold down water, she can go home. If not, she’ll need to be admitted.” My poor baby. An IV is no fun when you’re a healthy adult. It’s pretty much like Chinese water torture if you’re a dehydrated little kid. I’m glad I wasn’t there for that; her daddy is way better at handling that stuff and making sure his baby is OK, than I am.

A little while later, they were transported by ambulance to the children’s hospital, they stuck around in the ER for a few hours, and she was still not holding down sips of water or juice or whatever they were giving her.

So, a room. A room with tv and cartoons and a window. It was perfectly comfortable. Except for that little couch that they have the audacity to say folds down into a “bed.” I was grateful I didn’t have to sleep on that. My husband stayed overnight while we were there, and  I was able to take the daytime shift, with the preschooler in tow.

It was dark as I drove home from the hospital with a little catch in my throat. I’d just left my baby at the hospital. With her daddy and a great team of nurses and everyone taking great care of her. I remember looking at the city lights in the dark, a little bit of snow flurry through the headlight beams, and thinking, not “why is this happening today?” but, “Thank you, God, for taking care of our little girl.” I was so grateful for the gentle steps that led us into hospital admittance. Guys, that’s not normal. That’s supernatural help.

That was Thursday. Friday brought a visitor or two. Surprise gifts delivered to the room. So much Nick Junior. Notice from our preschool director that there were meals being collected for our freezer, to make life easier for us. Cards with stickers. Texts and well wishes and prayers.

Our brave little patient was lethargic. She barely nodded her head in response to questions that first day. She spent most of the day, and the next, sleeping. He sister spent a lot of time sitting at the end of the bed, watching cartoons quietly.

Friday night some of our best friends came by to see her, to hug us, and to bring a gift. (It was their anniversary–they were out for their anniversary date and stopped at the hospital after dinner. What kind of friend does that? The very best kind, that’s what.)

We got a visit from the chaplain. He seemed like a nice guy. He seemed a little confused. Searching for words. Asking how I was. I told him, “I’m great. She’s getting better, even though she doesn’t look very conversant today.” The nurse was in the room, checking vitals, not saying a word. “Are you doing OK, Mom?”

“I am so thankful. It’s great being here; everybody’s taking such good care of us. And we really have so much peace. I’m grateful for all the little graces in the whole process.” He just stared at me. I don’t think he believed anything I said. “Where do you think those, little graces, as you said, come from?”

“From Jesus.”

“Um, yeah. Well, if there’s anything you need, I’ll be here, and we have chapel services downstairs” and he told me when. Then he left the room. Awkward. I don’t know if he didn’t like Jesus, or what. Poor guy, it must be hard being in a place where there’s so much need, and then have somebody not need you. I think he was trying. Maybe he thought I was making stuff up. I dunno; it amused me, though.

Little graces: Like the nurses who cleaned up everything for us all the time. The doctor who noticed that while my husband was getting a slice of pizza with the 3-year-old, he realized he didn’t have his wallet–but the doctor paid for it for them. The librarian who brought DVDs up to the room for our viewing enjoyment. The boss who didn’t fuss about my husband being at the hospital taking care of his family. The prayers–oh, the prayers–of our church family.

While we were in the midst of the back and forth, I had such an appreciation for families who live in and out of hospitals. We met a dad and his son, eating in the parent lounge with us, who were looking forward to leaving in a couple of days. We asked how long they’d been there. Six weeks, they said, and the relief in their voices and the hope for the next phase of life was remarkable.

After 3 nights, she regained her appetite and we were ready to get out of there. It was glorious to be able to tell everyone that we were going home. What a relief. What gratitude. We spent the next 5 days at home recovering before we were back into normal routine, but it was not hard.

I am telling the story so we can remember how God helped us.

I’m telling the story so I can tell you that no matter what goes down, it doesn’t have to be hard. It started on my birthday; I could have gotten mad and bent out of shape because my birthday party was wrecked by puke. I could have been upset that we were driving to the hospital two or three times a day for 4 days. Nothing that needed to get done was getting done. Our fridge was full of produce that was getting slimy. I could have been mad that the 3 year old had to hang out with me and her sleeping sister in a hospital room with exactly 2 places to sit and exactly nothing to do. (She was a trooper–only had one meltdown in all that time in all those hours of all those days she sat with me.) I could have been frustrated that she wasn’t getting better faster.

Irritation at the circumstances shows nothing more than my impatience with a patient God. My complaints regarding the circumstances would have shown no more than my distrust of my trustworthy King. If I trust that He knows what He is doing, that He’s already weighed what will be the best way to draw us into a deeper trust, and that He knows where we are, then I can embrace the process without fear.

I had nothing but gratitude for the gentle manner in which He carried our whole family through that hospital stay. Step by step, He led us. I had a few moments in which I was caught up in myself; I wanted a few things for my own comfort, but it wasn’t hard to set it aside and be grateful.

If I’m not grateful, it is an indicator of pride. I am certain that I deserve something better than what I have right now. If I am grateful, it’s an indicator of trust. I trust that the One who knows my thoughts and needs is aware of them and delights to carefully give what is necessary.

It doesn’t have to be hard. Life isn’t supposed to be hard; it’s not going to always be roses and cupcakes, but it doesn’t have to be misery and hardship. There is enough in Him to make it peaceful and glorious.

My greatest treasure is this.

In the Sunday School lesson the following week, this is what she drew in her class. It’s where she trusted Jesus. There’s the hospital room, her on the bed, with the door and the monitors and the sink and everything. (Daddy is supposed to be in there, but she ran out of time and didn’t make his head; so pay no attention to the dismembered adult on the side.)

The fruit of my peace in this time is that it’s growing faith in the hearts of my children and an assurance that He is taking care of them. That is a gift I can’t even fully grasp.