Hearts shall pump strong and the crippled shall leap - one day

Note:  Here, now, is the sequel to the story I shared with you on Monday.  The lessons we learned during this journey will not, I hope, soon be forgotten.  May it encourage your heart today, my friend.  Maranatha!

It struck me like a thunderclap, sitting there in the audience.  The lights had gone down.  Nervous sixth graders lined the risers, fidgeting, as the director lifted her hands, pausing to nod once at the pianist.  And there she was. 

Just there in the front row between two of her classmates, she sat, wearing a lovely dress, looking for all the world like the other adolescent girls on the stage.  She sang cheerfully, following along from her wheelchair, which was not at all like the other adolescent girls on the stage.  I blinked to clear the mist. 

It had pained me, watching her decline over the years, and I recalled the first time I’d watched her being wheeled into church.  I remembered, too, the night I’d sat in the bleachers behind her and her family at a basketball game.  It was a very special night for them, for the halftime show was to feature the young girls who’d attended cheerleading camp.  For one night, they were going to live the dream, performing on the NorthWood basketball court with real NorthWood cheerleaders. 

For a moment, I was a young girl, too, transported back in time to my own childhood dreams of cheering before a crowd.  Then there she came, that pretty little girl, rolling out onto the floor, holding pom-poms of her own. 

I sat, stricken, bolted to my seat in the stands, barely able to see through tears that threatened to spill.  What a fallen world this was, and there, once more, was evidence in the form of a beautiful little cheerleader trapped in a crippled body. 

All of this flashed through my mind as the children sang, and I watched the brave young girl in the wheelchair. 

There was another child I was watching that night.  He was standing to the right of the girl in the chair and up in the third row.  Over and over, my eyes locked on the kid with the blue eyes and the freckled nose.  Yes, his lips were moving.  Yes, his hair was (relatively) in place, and yes – that new shirt we’d picked out the other day was perfect for him. 

It was our own Boy Three, Mr. Middle School.  This was the child who’d given us such a scare when the doctor had heard a loud heart murmur during a recent illness. 

For weeks as we’d awaited his consultation, the house had been quiet.  Placed under a strict ban on physical exertion, the wrestling had stopped.  There was no slapping and pounding, and the endless chases around the dining room table had ceased.  That peculiar music of boys that mothers well know had been silenced for a time. 

During those days of waiting and uncertainty, I’d turned to His Word, feeling keenly the presence of the living Christ.  I’d listened for His voice, finding the peace that passes understanding, and I’d learned the powerful truth that a constant heart murmur was just what an anxious mama needed. 

I can hardly explain what it’s like to see these words on that brick building, “Riley Hospital for Children,” and to know that you’re not there to visit someone else’s child.  It’s surreal, walking past those little red wagons, knowing that those are for kids with cancer and toddlers with rare diseases and children who are mortally ill.  And you're there with yours to see a heart doctor on the fourth floor...

It was with joy and relief that we received the wonderful news.  Our son’s heart was healthy.  The words that we’d prayed to hear, “Go home and live,” sent us home on a wave of gratitude.

Later on, I knelt down beside the basket of clothes I was preparing to fold and gave thanks.  "Thank You," I whispered to the Blessed Controller of All Things, "that You said 'yes' and didn't ask us to walk that road this time.”

Outside by the barn, three boys and their father were celebrating in their own way.  I looked out the window to see the harbinger of spring, their beloved trampoline, being erected piece by piece by piece.  And I gave thanks again.

We left our worries behind us on that waiting room floor.  But we also left behind a room full of families who would not leave with such good news.  Families whose lives were consumed with appointments and tests and bills that won’t stop coming.  So many mommies and daddies.  So many whys. 

I cannot explain why God does what He does; why He chooses to heal one and not the other.  It’s beyond my understanding.  What I do know is this:  He knows our frame.  He remembers that we are dust.  He knows, my friend, that it’s hard to be us. 

I know this, too, that Jesus intercedes for us and that this world’s pain and suffering is only temporary.  There is coming a day when the blind will see, when all diseased hearts shall pump strong, and crippled legs shall leap, straight and true, to lead the heavens in a never-ending song of praise.  Even so, come, Lord Jesus.