A Mother’s Prayer

It’s not the worst thing a parent has prayed a child through. Not by a long shot. But this past week? It’s been rough.

Last Friday— almost a week ago now— Simon, age 6, came to me shortly before dinner.

“I’m itching, Momma,” he told me, pulling down the waistband of his jeans. “Right here.”


Sure enough, he had three raised, red welts on his hip. They were, combined, about the size of my thumb. He had been outside for hours, so my mind reviewed some potentials. Have you been by the creek? In the fields? On top of the hay roll? Yessss, he replied, his sheepish eyes confirming that this was a blanket affirmation. He had done all of these things, and more, of course.

Being That Kind of Mom, I stripped him down, gave him a thorough bath, and reached for my boxes. Blue for homeopathics, wood for oils. Trusting that this was a blip on the radar screen of my evening, that my herbs and home remedies had this covered, I moved on to getting food on the table.

It was done. Nothing. No big deal. Just one of those things that pops up from time to time.

A Mother's Prayer

Except 8 hours later, Simon was in the ER, covered in angry red welts, unable to bear the itch that crept over his skin. And the next night, the same story, though this time with eyes swollen shut and fingers and toes unable to bend and a complaint of not being able to swallow. And finally, Sunday, when the prescribed course of treatment was still doing nothing and I finally contacted our own pediatrician at home and asked her advice, only to be sent to an ER for the third time.

“Acute allergic response,” they say. The antibiotic he took nearly a full 10-day course of the most likely culprit.

Here it is now, almost a week later, and we are on a newborn routine with my exhausted kindergartener: every three hours, another dose of something. Antihistamines, steroids, stop, rinse, repeat. He has barely slept. Christopher and I have barely slept.

And still, new welts appear.

It’s better. Don’t get me wrong. His eyes are open, and in good moments he can wobble to the bathroom on his own tender feet, without being carried. He is chatty and in good spirits, and even plays with his siblings from time to time. The new hives appear and are not quite so red, not quite so large. They seem to fade quicker now, and cause him less discomfort.

But, oh, my heart.

This has been a hard thing to watch, a hard thing to feel so very powerless over. I am always keenly aware of God’s sovereignty in the lives of my children, of His story being written out in their lives and not the one I would necessarily pen for them. But this? This has brought me to my knees in accepting the reminder that I am not the mother-shaped wall that stands between each precious soul and pain, or suffering, or even worse. I am not capable of soothing every hurt or even treating every ailment with my happy boxes and my “get outside in the sun” cure-all.

I am just a mother. Just a mother, whose heart is breaking at wanting to hold her baby boy but not being able to for the scarlet rash that bites at his soft, white skin.

And God? He is God. He has brought us doctors, nurses, and an arsenal of tools. He has created my son’s strong little body, which is fighting exactly as it should. And He has brought us a community. People who have called, texted, and messaged their love and support and prayers. People who have had pizzas delivered to our door. People who have offered to come to the hospital in the middle of the night and pray over Simon. People who have checked in daily. People who have known that a crockpot lunch and the chance to talk are worth their weight in gold right now. People who have rallied around my family in the most beautiful way, in His Name.

As I said, this isn’t the worst thing a parent has ever walked through with their child. God willing, this will resolve soon. At the advice of countless fellow parents and medical professionals, we’ll pursue thorough testing to be sure it was just the antibiotic that sparked this wildfire in Simon’s immune system— with the prayer that we never find ourselves here again. We’ll keep moving forward and every day this horrible week will recede a little further in our hearts and minds.

So yes, it’s been a terrible, awful, no good week. And Simon—sweet, adventurous, sparkly Simon— has been very ill. But here I am, trusting again. Not in my salves and teas and remedies this time, but that this mother’s prayer will be answered, and that my son will be healed completely, as God wills.

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