God, why?

Dear God,


Today, as You know, Michael and I went to his school at morning snack time for the main nurse to learn how to use Michael's Omnipod to administer insulin for his morning snack.  Michael and I arrived at school and waited in the school office for about 10 minutes or so (it turns out the nurse was helping to bandage up a teacher who had cut him/herself).  Michael was getting restless, but was also relatively chatty with me.


The nurse arrived and Michael froze up, as I thought he might.  I had to basically peel him off of the chair he was sitting on.  He crossed his arms and only offered a grumbly "Hmpfh!" to any question that was asked of him (like "Hey! I see Mario on your shirt!  Who's your favorite character?").  Again, I wasn't surprised by this, and neither were You, Lord.


When we got into the nurse's office, she pulled up a couple of chairs by her desk.  Lord, as You saw, when my sweet boy went to sit on his chair, it rolled backwards and he fell to the floor.  He was embarrassed, and that was his ending point.  He clammed up and wouldn't cooperate fully the whole rest of the meeting.  The nurse, bless her, apologized so much for not thinking about the chair being a rolling chair, and not thinking of holding onto it as it rolled.  God, I knew in my heart today that one embarrassing moment would ruin the experience for Michael and it happened.  I saw the whole thing in slow motion.  That chair started rolling, and I reached for my child rather than the chair.  I wasn't fast enough, and as soon as his bottom hit the floor, I knew he was done.  I knew he was embarrassed-- because I'm the same way, Lord.  I held him close and told him it was okay to be embarrassed and even to be mad.  His eyes were filled with tears and it hurt my Mommy heart, God.  I coached Michael that although it's okay to be embarrassed or mad, it's not okay to be rude. 


But, probably so much like what Your children do, it went in one ear and out the other.  Michael refused to stand by me.  He went to the door and stood by the door until it was time to go.  I walked the nurse through the basic steps of administering insulin, and Michael stood beside me only briefly enough to get his insulin and then he was back at the door.  I had to convince him to eat his snack about 20 minutes after he received insulin for it.  He barely would eat it at first.  I told the nurse that this is typical behavior if he is embarrassed about something.  I told her to expect this behavior if Michael has to really carry his lunch tray across the hall from the cafeteria to the nurse's station and then back to the cafeteria.  How is a five-year-old supposed to do that, Lord?  I told her if he spills or drops his tray, this behavior is what they can expect to see.  This is why I'm asking that a nurse (there's 3 in the school) come to the cafeteria to give him insulin rather than him walking to the nurses.  At our big meeting on Monday (with the nurses, the assistant principal, and the teacher) we'll discuss this at length, amongst other things.  Aaron will come with me, but we know that if he does, Lord, it's a day of unpaid leave. 


God, the biggest struggle I'm facing today is why?  Why him, God?  Why us? 


If Michael didn't have Type One Diabetes, we wouldn't have had to go to school today, Lord.  We could have waited until next week when school actually starts.  I wouldn't have to be trusting strangers to keep my kid alive during the day, God.  Michael wouldn't have fallen on the floor and created that first impression of the nurse's station.  Why, God?  Why?


Why did You choose Him?  I know there's a bigger purpose, but some days are harder than others.  Some days, the tears cloud my eyes so heavily, that I can't see the sunlight peeking through. Today is one of those days, God.


Michael is already struggling with understanding the concept of going to school.  He is adamant that he's not going.  Aaron and I are firmly but kindly reminding him that it is not his choice and that he must go to school.  It's already a struggle, Lord, as it is in probably every house of a new-kindergartener.  There's already emotions, Lord, because this is our first child to send to school.  We would already be nervous based on that reason alone.  But to throw Type One Diabetes in the mix.... just, why?


Sometimes, I wear the badge proudly.  I think "God chose me for this.  He must know that I can make it through.  He's got an awesome plan for my kid.  All I  have to do is trust."  I see the Rosie the Riveter t-shirts that say "T1D Mom.  It's not for the weak."  And I hit the "Like" button on Facebook and think "yeah, not for the weak.  That's the truth." 


But days like this, God.  Oh, why are we here?  Why do we have to endure the pain that comes with this relentless disease?  Why does my nearly-five-year old little boy have to have such evident scars on his little legs and arms from the diabetes supplies that aid in keeping him alive? 


Why must I devise a plan for my child to receive two additional snacks during the school day to accommodate for wacky lunch times and exercise schedules?  Why must we delve out extra dollars to furnish "Low Supply" kits for the nurse's station, the classroom, the gym, and the bus?  Why must he wear a Medical Alert bracelet that we switch around on his wrists every so many weeks so that his other wrist can get a break?  Why him, God?  Can you just tell me why?


If I could see the purpose, the plan, the Promised Land, God, for my son, would I feel better?  If I could peek into the Promised Land from a distance like Moses and see Your goodness, would I my strength be renewed to forge through this earthly battle of disease?


God, we've gotten so little sleep these past two weeks.  Minimal.  A hardly functioning amount.  You know this, God, because You do not sleep.  When we're awake, You're awake too.  You see our tired eyes and the way our heads nod ever so slightly when we're trying to focus on something but we just can't.  You see it, God.  And You know.  You see us stumbling through the house when it's completely dark and we're trying to open a carton of chocolate milk to bring up a low, or we're grabbing the Omnipod bag to input a blood sugar so we can calculate how much insulin to give him to bring down a high blood sugar (and make a judgment call in the process of whether we're going to give him more or less insulin than the technology suggests).  You see us flail our arms when our alarm clocks go off in the morning.  You see us squint our eyes as we try to figure out what day it is and how many more days we  have to get up that early until it's the weekend again.


It's rough, God.


But I know it can be worse. 


I know we're not guaranteed ease of living down here.  Too much pain, too much corruption, and we're followers of You, God, which means we have a target on our back from the enemy.  We know we'll be attacked and experience sadness, trial, and devastation.


The only thing that keeps me going, God, is to know the ultimate end.  I know the ending of the earthly story.  Michael will be healed.  In Heaven, there is no Type One Diabetes.  This, I understand.  But, wow, sometimes I dream of what life could be like here on earth if Type One Diabetes wasn't around down here either. 


I know in my heart that I will not see the purpose for Michael ahead of Your timing.  I understand.  I really do.  But on days like today, it makes my heart sad.  I hurt for my child.  I hurt in knowing there's nothing I can do to fix him or repair his pancreas.  There's nothing I can do to eliminate the questions of why he has to have insulin, or why does someone have to learn how to operate his Omnipod.  I hurt when I can't fix the tears, the scars, the worn out areas.  I hurt when I think about what life might be like in several months when our soon-to-be-newborn might be sleeping through the night-- it means that Aaron & I still have reason to wake up multiple times a night and it won't have anything to do with a baby and everything to do with Diabetes. I hurt when I see people with "stuff" and I can't afford it because I have to allocate spending towards diabetes supplies. I hurt and get a lump in my throat when I have to call the diabetes supply numbers (we have two separate suppliers for different items) and reorder items.  I hurt when we have to take Michael to his twice yearly visits at the endocrinologist because it means we have to rely on a medical team to aid us in keeping our son alive.  There's so much hurt here, God.


But I know You're bigger. 


And I know You really do have a plan. Although I might not see it, or at least might not see it until it's unfolding at the right time, I do know a plan is in place.  You're a good Father who loves His children and are not going to hand them a snake when they ask for a fish, or a stone when they ask for bread.  I know this, Lord, but I'm asking you today to keep this at the forefront of my mind.  Please please please continually remind me that You are here.  We're not left alone.  Please remind me that You are awake.  You do not sleep through the lows or the highs.  Please remind me that You are rest and that we can come to You with our burdens.  Here I am, God.  I have a burden.  Please take it upon You and give rest to my soul. 


Thank You for being the reason we are here.  For without You, there's no hope and that would be just an overwhelming devastation to families walking this road we're currently on.  Without You, God, how do those families even make it through?


Thank You for letting me be Michael's mommy.  I adore the little boy so much.  Thank You for entrusting me with a child who has a broken body.  He's Your child first, and I'm just a caretaker here on earth.  Thank You for saying "Here, You can watch this one.  He's going to have Type One Diabetes, but remember, I'm here too." 


Please, Lord, let me always count my blessings.  Please let me do better at considering trials a blessing as well. 


In You I pray,
Amen.