grand
“I’m scared,” Riley says, tears brimming in her tired eyes. I can see angry capillaries traveling like tributaries from the corners; the ocean of her grief swallows them.
I want to sweep her tears away; I want to take her hand and run away from this day, this place.
“To get your blood drawn?” I ask. The nurse has just left us, Riley wheeled in her chair, me in a broad, antiseptic-looking recliner. Nurse said someone would come get us to draw blood.
“No, about my seizure,” Riley says, and I think, of course. In our years with epilepsy, we’ve seen many seizures, but this is the first so big. Grand,they call it, but that feels like the wrong word. Brutal, more like. The grotesque thing stole her away, dragging her off somewhere. She woke up in the ambulance.
A trim woman in a paramedic’s uniform walks through a mysterious set of doors just beyond us. I’ve been looking at those doors wondering where they lead, reading the labels–staff only, warned in red–while minutes melt away like wax. The woman’s smooth, bobbed blonde hair swings in sharp edges about her cheeks. She pauses next to Riley, bending, touching Riley’s arms lightly with her fingers.
“Miss Riley, how are you now?” She asks, her grin wide and familiar.
“We had such a grand time in the ambulance,” she says to me, by way of explanation. That word again–grand, I wonder how often she has occasion to use it to describe hospital transport.
Riley looks at her and smiles, lit somewhere deep, and says, “I’m great, how are you?” We might as well be sitting on our front porch in the sunshine.
The paramedic chuckles, shaking her head a little. “I’m good, Miss Riley. I’m glad you’re better.” She taps Riley’s arm again with affection, pausing as though she’d like to stay a while and visit. “Well, take care,” she says, catching a bit more of Riley’s light. I see it in her smile, her eyes, and I think, God’s glory transcends temporary trouble. We slowly crumble, but God’s glory builds and spreads, reflecting in our faces.
Sitting in that broad, sticky vinyl hospital chair, I realize that I’m a witness today to something far more real than seizures. The Spirit’s voice sounds clear: Therefore, we do not lose heart (2 Corinthians 4:7-18).
Riley’s seizures look like a theft, a humiliating kidnapping. Whether hearing or watching, I’m tricked; I feel like some gremlin holds my hands and makes me watch while they take my child away. But suddenly I see: Some things cannot be stolen. Riley still only shines; hers is an indestructible spirit. She brightens ambulances and emergency rooms as easily as any other corner of the world.
I reach for Riley’s hand, lace her soft, warm fingers between my own. “We need to pray,” I say simply. Zoe had said the same thing to me–we need to pray–on the way to the hospital. She held my hand at every stoplight. She prayed while I drove, right out loud for both of us. And now I pray for Riley, for me, for us, right out loud in the emergency room. Lord. We know you’re with us. We feel like we’ve lost our way in some dark valley, so I find it best to start with the truth. I ask for healing, for safety, for peace. I don’t fully understand the mystery of prayer; but I know what it isn’t. We’re not shopping now; it’s not an ethereal supply store; this isn’t an exchange. The words all mean the same thing: We trust you. We need you. We depend on your grace. Raw moments like this one have their freedom; we don’t care how we sound or who listens. Holding hands, Riley and I tuck our heads and run away from this day, toward another one with no more tears.
When finally we lift our heads, Riley smiles, exhales in that relieved way she reserves for prayer. My daughter, the fiercest prayer warrior I know, flings her fear into the vastness of God. God, now He’s grand. And my daughters will be okay, because they know this.
