I have a friend named Simon.
He’s eleven.
I remember the day his family arrived here for the first
time, Simon struggling to breathe and weak from the anesthesia of his first
esophageal surgery. I remember the fear in his mother’s eyes as she left him
here with his grandmother and me for middle of the night feedings through his
new feeding tube and daily tracheotomy changes. They needed a place to stay
that was near the hospital, just in case.
I remember when his surgeon first showed me all of his scans
and my staff and I realized that we were looking at a miracle – a real, true
miracle. How does a child live for ten years with out any ability to swallow
food? I remember the certainty I felt that God wouldn’t have brought him this
far unless He had an unbelievable plan.
I remember all the times I bumped into his grandmother
coming out of her room to prepare food in the middle of the night as I got up
to check on Betty. We nursed our patients and we swore when the power went out
and we couldn’t use the blender to puree his food, and sometimes we just stared
at each other through too-sleepy eyes. We whispered of God’s grace and we
whispered of our sorrows. We reminded each other of the call to of God to
longsuffering. I remember the way they held me when they learned that Betty had
gone home to Jesus.
I remember all the things that went wrong. The moments of
panic and the consistent, pleading prayers over Simon’s young, fragile life.
His mom came to live with us when it got to be too much for his grandmother. We
both learned to do things that we never imagined we could. We watched and
prayed through eleven failed surgeries. Eleven. I remember the weight of our
exhaustion that just settled down over my home and my heart. Would he ever get well? Ever?
I remember the day I realized with full clarity that Simon
just Couldn’t get better in Uganda. We had the best surgeons and equipment our
country could offer and it just wasn’t working. I remember his squeal as he
took off on his very first airplane and his mother’s wide eyes as we entered
the Atlanta airport over 30 hours later.
I remember the great delight I knew in watching my
biological family welcome in members of our Ugandan family and the love that
Simon and Anna felt everywhere we went. I remember how surreal it was to be
back here in Uganda and know that they were safe and sound at the homes of my
parents and closest friends in Nashville.
I remember the email that said that Simon’s surgeries were
over and had been successful. Attached were confirmation numbers of his plane
ticket home. I remember the elated, disbelieving faces of our dedicated staff
when I shared the news. I remember my children counting down the days until
they got here – our friends, now family members. And I remember her tears of
gratitude on my shoulder as we embraced for the first time in months back where
it all started, “God saved my son’s life.”
It is 20 months later. It feels like eternity.
And today they drove away smiling and laughing, arms excitedly
waving out of van windows, as my children chased and waved just as hard. I
stood in the driveway and let tears of joy well up in my eyes. They are well. They are well. Simon can swallow food
just as well as any other eleven year old. He can play soccer with the best of
them. Tomorrow, he’ll go back to third grade. Anna will be able to go back to
work after completely surrendering all her dreams to take care of her son. They
will wash dishes and do homework and laugh and sing and pray in their own
little home just like so many other happy, healthy families. And we will stay
here and do the same.
I stood in their room long after they left and ran my
fingers of the words of Hebrews that I painted on the wall, mostly as a
reminder to myself, “He who promised is faithful.” I can hardly believe His
faithfulness to us, the fullness of all His promises unfolding right here
before my eyes. I breathe deep relief. I allow myself to remember just how
crazy hard it all was, just how long
it has been, just how tired I have
felt, and just how faithful he has
been to each of us through all of it.
People ask me how we do it – all these people living, and
sometimes dying, in our home. Most days I shake me head, I don’t know. Lots of days it’s just down right hard. Some days it is more than exhausting. But
today I remember. We hold out for the happy ending. Because where Jesus is, the
happy ending is possible. It doesn’t
always come, and that doesn’t mean He is not present, but still, it is possible. Redemption is coming. And we don’t always get
to glimpse His redemption here and now, but sometimes we do.
Today I remember. There isn’t always a happy ending… but
sometimes, there is.
And He who promised is faithful.