When I learned I was going to become a mother, the excitement was indescribable. I imagined the things I would do with my child, the play dates, the art projects we could do, the books we’d read, and places we would go. When a sweet baby boy was placed in my arms, I was instantly in love and had found a new purpose for my life.
Two years later, we added another precious baby boy to our family. But before I’d even had a chance to get into the swing of being of a mother of two, my two-year-old son received a devastating diagnosis. Within the next two years, both boys would have a dozen diagnoses between them.
My daydreams of motherhood were shattered, replaced with endless therapy appointments, battles with insurance companies and doctors, and an overwhelming loneliness I didn’t know how to handle. My emotional, spiritual, and physical health were deteriorating under the stress. Anxiety and depression took turns settling in and making themselves cozy.
But what surprised me the most was the crisis of faith I experienced. Where was God? Why would He do this to me and my boys? Was He really a good God, like I had always believed? And scariest of all, was He even real? If He was real, He felt far away and silent when I needed Him the most.
One day, the never-ending mountain of laundry and dishes and appointments and worries gave me a panic attack. Seriously. My chest felt tight and my heart pounded. Tears streamed down my face, and I couldn’t catch my breath. My husband suggested I go spend some time by myself. I went gladly, eager to process this overwhelming anxiety with God.
I headed to a nearby beach where I listened to the waves crash on the shore and tasted my warm salty tears. I didn’t even know what to pray about. I expected more silence from God.
Never have I been more thankful to be proven wrong. He whispered one word that broke the silence and banished the anxiety and grief that had gripped my heart for so long.