My heart sinks every time I think about the close call as my daughter ran into the busy street. How her hair looked as her curls bounced in slow motion. And I yelled painfully loud, hoping I could stop her with the panic of my voice. She ran (unknowingly) to her death, I ran for her life. I saw her body slow down as she heard her mother's cry to stop. It was a satisfying moment to grab her tiny two-year-old shoulders and give her another chance at life. I was on my knees, breathless. The truck sped by, my daughter was by my side.
"He has their days numbered." My aunt comforted me and reminded me kindly that God holds human life in his hands. I love that she reminded me of this, but it is times like these I see how little I trust the creator and sustainer of life. Of course I want my children to outlive me. I work hard to keep them safe, and feel like I am always aware of what they're doing. Even then, sometimes my prayers sound more like a fearful plea, "Please God, don't take them from me!"
It is a mystery to me how a mother can fully trust God with the life of her children, and at the same time it is so ridiculous that I would try to take control of blood-pumping organs, the intricacy of the brain, danger, and illness.
Today, and every day, there is grace for my unbelief. Grace for my heart that wants control. And there is grace and tears of thanksgiving that I have my daughter today. I don't know if I will ever understand how to completely trust God with my children, but I hope I am always good at thanking him after the close calls and another precious day with them.