“But the Lord is with me like a mighty warrior; so my persecutors will stumble and not triumph over me.” – Jeremiah 20:11
God, thank You for making sure my son is okay. Thank You for this just being paranoia. I believe in You. I believe in Your control. I believe. I believe. I believe.
These words streamed through my head as my husband drove us downtown to visit our first specialist with our 4-month-old son, Maximus. Our pediatrician had written me off, but I could not ignore the feeling in my bones that something was wrong. Tiny, hard bumps had appeared all over Maximus’s skin. They were growing fast. I watched, took notes, and worried.
When I called the dermatologist, I was told it would be months before we could be seen. To my surprise, they got us in the very next day. I had so much belief, not just in God, but in my body, in my instincts, in the idea that if I had unshakeable faith, everything would be okay.
We waited in the office, playing and distracting Maximus while masked faces passed by. When the doctor walked in and began examining him, I felt the room shift. More bumps than I realized were there. She tried to stay calm. “I am going to ask a colleague to come in and take a look,” she said.
She left, and I stood holding Maximus, showing him out the window. My head felt light, my heart heavy, but I focused on him. This was not the first time I needed to be mighty for my son, but it was the first time I had to summon courage in a way that forced me to pretend all was well, even as cracks formed in my faith.
My husband whispered, “Do you think he will need a biopsy?” I shook my head like he had four heads. “Of course not. He’s fine. God would not let that happen,” I said.
When the colleague came in and announced they would need to perform a biopsy, my world tilted. My prayers, my faith, my belief, suddenly felt inadequate. I held my son, nursed him as a distraction, and watched a piece of him taken away. How could this be happening?
That biopsy was just the beginning. In the months that followed, Maximus endured countless tests before being diagnosed with an ultra-rare disease, with fewer than 100 documented cases worldwide. Then came additional complications, other diagnoses, and other untreatable conditions. Each new hurdle chipped away at my certainty, my hope, and my heart.
Fast-forward nearly four years. We spent a weekend in the hospital for testing, including preparing Maximus, now three, for an MRI. Sleep-deprived, scared, and overwhelmed, Maximus reached his tipping point as I helped him into the hospital gown. The straps, the cold fabric, the unfamiliar smells, it was all too much.
An older woman in the waiting room began making loud, inappropriate comments to the man beside her. At first, I met her politely, explaining that Maximus was scared and asking for discretion. But she pushed, speaking without care for our space or our little boy. My mama bear instinct kicked in. I stood up firmly, protecting him, and speaking up against their ignorance.
When it was all over, Maximus leaned his head on my shoulder. That quiet gesture, his way of saying thank you, sent a wave of emotion through me. I held back tears, needing to stay strong for my scared 3-year-old, and realized that in that small, tender moment, God’s presence was unmistakable. Even amid chaos, fear, and judgment from strangers, we were safe. He was safe. I was safe.
Then came a moment of grace. A man in the waiting room, witnessing everything, simply said, “God bless you and your baby.” That single sentence broke through the heaviness. We shared stories, struggles, and faith. He told me he had been praying for peace, and seeing Maximus had given him that peace. In that encounter, I realized that even in disbelief, God was still present. Every whispered prayer, every tear, every fear, none of it had gone unheard.
Throughout that weekend, I saw God in small moments. A compassionate nurse whose story mirrored mine, Maximus’s joy despite the cords of an EEG wrapped around his head, and my ability to be mighty despite our surroundings. Even in the face of new diagnoses with no treatment or cure, God’s presence was unmistakable. He was the safe place to land I had been desperate to find. The anchor amid storms I could not control.
I may have lost certainty, control, and even hope along the way. But in the middle of despair, in the moments when it felt like faith had left me, I landed in the safest place I could ever know: God’s hand. Warm, steady, unfailing, holding me, holding Maximus, carrying us through fear, through doubt, through every impossible day.
In that hand, I found a peace I never thought I would, a love that never falters, and the courage to keep believing, even when nothing made sense.
by Amber Palmer 
by Jennifer Thompson 
by Jen Miller 
