and I wait expectantly

Impatiently, I refresh the screen, tapping my foot, jiggling the mouse with my hand. Come on, come on, come on.

A few days ago, I sent Riley’s doctor a message on the patient portal, a few questions about upcoming labs and potential patterns. Sometimes parenting a child with epilepsy, especially while adjusting meds, feels like toting around a life-wrecking hand grenade, guarding it white-knuckled against potential disaster, all the while wondering when invisible forces will jerk out the pin anyway. You watch for signs–Is that? Did she just?— but try to appear nonchalant; you stare at your phone, seeing the faint lines of your reflection in the black gloss, imagining a sudden call from school.

Each time Riley has a seizure, I look at my watch–just quickly, before I wrap my arms protectively around her body, just so I will know when they ask me how long. When it’s over, I make a note of it in my planner, right next to birthdays, remembrances, and what we’ll eat for dinner, while Riley stands in the doorway, telling me she doesn’t like seizures; she wishes she wouldn’t have them anymore. Seizures and the side effects from her meds are the only things–besides a few random foods–that Riley ever says she doesn’t like. I nod, agreeing. I don’t like them either.

The screen refreshes and I stare at a cute. cartoony red envelope, the unassuming icon hiding the hyperlink for received messages. It sits right next to a whimsical pill bottle, a little stack of what looks like paper money, a clipboard with papers lightly breezing up. When I have new messages in my inbox, tiny numbers appear beside the envelope. Today, nothing. Still nothing. I log in multiple times a day–in the morning, around lunch, in the thick of the afternoon.

I stare at the screen. I sigh. I tap my fingers against the desk, striking a frantic beat. I could call; I could talk to someone who mostly schedules appointments, someone sounding bored, like she’s counting the chips in her fingernail polish, flicking them with her thumb, but that won’t accomplish anything besides adding to my frustration. And then, because God takes every opportunity to teach, I think of a verse I’ve recently committed to memory: In the morning, I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly (Psalm 5:3). I smile, because the Spirit and I are friends, and right away I understand the good-natured question He implies: What if I waited upon God the way I wait for these emails from the doctor?

Because I’ve been talking to God about this too. I’ve asked Him for complete healing for Riley; for relief from side effects; for the right doses if she must have this medicine, thanking Him that we’re able to get it for her. I’ve asked for peace, that He’ll help me let go of the grenade and trust. Riley, my ever stronger prayer-warrior girl, has asked so many of our friends to pray with us for the same things. Just this morning, a dear friend of mine texted and said, prayers continue that Riley has endured her last seizure and there will be no more. And suddenly, with a grin now, I realize I’m just like those first century Christians praying for Peter’s release from prison, all the while never really expecting to find him at the door (Acts 12). I’ve been laying my requests before, but without the expectant waiting. All of that, I’ve directed toward the doctor’s office.

Fortunately for those early Christians (and also for me), God’s answers to our petitions don’t depend on our expectations. God offers us abundant grace as we grow in faith. I’m nonetheless challenged to become more persistent in the looking, to refresh my view again and again and again, searching for sight of the activity of the One who holds all things in His hands. Because with God, all things are possible (Matthew 19:26). His love for us never fails (1 Corinthians 13:8). God hears; our prayers do not fall empty in the ear of boredom (Psalm 6:9). In fact, immediately God draws near and listens when we speak (Deuteronomy 4:7, Psalm 145:18). “Come near to God,” James says, “and He will come near to you (James 4:8).” Remarkably, God is mind-full of us (Psalm 8:4). And He always replies–often before we finish praying, even if the answer turns out to be no. Energy applied to waiting expectantly upon God is energy far more powerfully and effectively expended.

So I pull out my journal now, stilling those tapping fingers, and carefully I write just these words, shaping their scrolling letters,

and I wait expectantly.