When the mountain’s shadow looms, we concentrate on the problems of the moment rather than the opportunities that the future holds. By doing so, we lose sight of the future. Instead of living in this moment, we surrender and lose precious time by worrying about what will happen in a minute, an hour, a day, a week, or a lifetime from now. I did just that in the beginning.
This is Our Story
When my husband and I brought Andrew home from the NICU, his condition was still undiagnosed. Weeks later, we were told he had a rare genetic disorder called Prader-Willi Syndrome. The first three months were filled with medical appointments. Sometimes there were so many appointments in a single day that I couldn’t write them all in the small square provided on our calendar. When I look back at the schedule we kept, the memory exhausts me.
Genetics
Genetics was one of our first appointments. The geneticist painted the darkest picture he possibly could. He narrated our story – a picture of a bleak future with no hope. I jotted his words down in my journal: “Your child will most likely never walk, never talk, and he will always be dependent on you.” He didn’t leave out one negative detail and offered nothing positive. This doctor had taken a paint brush and had painted a canvas of Andrew’s future. For two ‘older’ parents the thought of parenting all over again was rough. This was devastating. I remember my response as I looked at my newborn, “So we eat healthy and we stay active. I don’t get it.” I began to formulate a plan without knowing it.
The Darkest Hour
One particular dark night, during a 3 am feeding, I felt overwhelmingly alone. The mountain loomed, the shadow seemed dark, and all I could think about was that my child would forever be hungry. My child had a hunger that had no cure. He would never know what it would mean to be ‘full‘. Holding Andrew’s feeding tube, I sobbed. I cried out in prayer like never before. The mountain’s height and its shadow were too much to navigate alone and I was paralyzed with fear.
As the milk drained from the feeding tube, I knew Andrew’s tummy was warm and full, but I also couldn’t get past the cruelty that he didn’t know it – that he would never know it. It was then from the darkness that I heard God’s voice so still and deep that it filled the room. I heard the words, “He’ll be okay.”
Fast Forward to Age 12
Andrew is twelve now. And you know what? God was right! He is okay! Looking back, I realized that I had allowed the geneticist to paint our future for us. In reality, however, he gave us a loop hole with the two little words, “most likely”. These two words were a link to a blank canvas that was our story to paint. In life, all we can see are brush strokes and we have no idea what the finished product will look like. We are all works in progress and God is in control.
If you are a geneticist reading this …. read those last four words again.
If God created this young man so perfect in His eyes then I would do my best to learn to mountain climb. These mountains are tough. We have three choices: to climb, go around, or build a tunnel. Daily we had a new page to Our Story.
Author of Moving Mountain’s Daily,
~Danielle~
