Where’s God at the Children’s Hospital?

My son was released from one of his specialists today. Well, not released, but the doctor said, “I don’t see any reason to see him for another year.” A year. The mark when something that what was once broken, is now fixed. Only monitoring is needed.

I said a prayer of thanks as we made the trek through the tunnel that connects inpatient and outpatient buildings, but I couldn’t help but notice the people we passed by.

The neurosurgeon—whose entire job is to operate on the brains of kids. The child with a bald head, which I assumed is from the effects of cancer-killing drugs. The girl in a motorized wheelchair, doing small laps to keep boredom at bay while a drip supplied her with something her body lacked.

We were supposed to be frequent fliers here and yet somehow flew under the radar instead.

Storms rolled in and out all day here. Heavy downpours faded into sunlight in and out again along with my mood.

I should feel nothing but grateful, and yet I can’t help but feel annoyed by the sun’s rays and drawn to the grey clouds instead.

Because I’ll never be able to answer why us and not them.

My babe sleeps peacefully in his crib, steady breaths turn his scarred belly into a lake of ripples gently lapping against the shore. Not a single doctor can explain how he escaped an ill-stricken infancy and I’m so thankful.

And yet I can’t help but feel the injustice of it all.

I know we are entitled to nothing, but why the kids? Can’t they get a pass?

It’s probably the most difficult issue in arguing a case for an all-loving, all-powerful God. But I’m reminded of this: the burden of why suffering exists falls on those of us of who believe in Him, but the burden of why goodness exists falls on those who believe in no higher power at all.

Yes, there is suffering here. So much of it. I have felt it with two of my children here before. But goodness also abounds in these sterile halls.

It is in the hands of those who have dedicated their lives to give our kids the chance at living their own, it’s in the volunteers who work to spread some joy in the thick forest of chirping machines, it’s in the parents whose hearts although breaking are somehow simultaneously expanding.

I’ve lived life with and without Him. Challenges have come since I’ve tried to follow Him and were nearly absent before I knew Him. And yet, I wouldn’t go back to a life where He is absent.

Today I’m drawn to the shade the clouds provide instead of the light. I’m relieved for us and sad for the children we walked by on our way out. I know I will never know the answer why.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet.

I believe God resides in the Children’s hospital.

Read why God Gave One Son a Miracle and Not the Other

*Behind the post: 
Preston got the clear from urology to not come back for another year. He will still see nephrology for monitoring every three months and ortho every six. I really am so grateful, but I also couldn’t help but think about those we passed by. That’s the thing about suffering, once you’ve been there, your eyes can’t help but stay open.