Trigger warning: Child loss

I had a plan for summertime fun with my children. We had just returned from a week-long road trip to the Grand Canyon. I intentionally planned to fill the rest of the summer with activities that would chase away boredom. Craft supplies had been purchased, day trips had been planned, and we were just beginning a week of Vacation Bible School. Excitement was in the air! Yet a tiny nagging fear kept resurfacing: Was there something wrong with my 2-year-old?

Ever since she turned two back in the fall, she had become fussy. Our healthy, happy little girl became clingy and grouchy. She became extremely picky, not wanting to eat much. Thinking she was feeling sick, we took her to the doctor, yet nothing was found. As winter hit, she became very restless in her sleep, moaning and thrashing around. She was still in a porta-crib in our room, but we moved her out, thinking we all needed a little sleep. She woke each morning with her messy hair standing out from sweating in her sleep. Again, we visited her doctor, but nothing was found. It was time to wean her, making the transition to a sippy cup, but she only wanted the comfort of nursing.

We rode the elevator to the 10th floor of the hospital, followed the friendly nurse to a small exam room, and heard the doctor say those dreaded words, “I’m sorry, it looks like cancer.”

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Those six words are enough to knock you to your knees, yet surprisingly, I stayed upright. My mind moved into “I will do what needs to be done” mode. The disbelief also caused the room to flood with uncertainty. Processing information, even hearing the words, became impossible. The doctor told us we could take our child home, returning two days later to start chemotherapy treatment. While I agreed that would be best, my mind was so overwhelmed carrying my little girl out of the revolving hospital door, knowing her body was filled with deadly tumors.

During the days that followed, I prayed many times. I begged God for healing, for wisdom, and for strength. Tears streamed down my face, my heart broke, and my words were audibly spoken to the Lord, “She’s just a baby, Lord. Please heal her.” “Give the doctors wisdom to know what to do.” “Lord, I can’t do this. I am so weak. Give me strength to be what she needs, what my other kids need, and to hold my marriage together.”

Finally, the day arrived when I lifted the most difficult prayer I would ever pray. This prayer began like the others, “Lord, I beg you to heal my baby. I know you are a good God. I know you love her more than I do. I also know you can heal her with one word. Allow her to grow up and tell of your goodness from her own lips, but Lord, if the healing you grant is in Heaven, I will tell of your goodness for her.”

This prayer was one of visibly unclenching my fist, turning my palms heavenward, and being willing to accept that I didn’t know what God would do but that I could still trust him. At a time when nothing in my life was right, I knew I could cling to the faithfulness of God. I knew He never promised that I would be without troubles in this world, but He told me He would never leave me or forsake me in those troubles (Hebrews 13:5).

Over the next 12 months, we had many troubles, yet God was faithful in each one. There were so many answered prayers. I kept a year-long journal recording each one to help me remember, fully planning to read her miraculous healing story to her when she grew up. There was never a day that I didn’t pray for her healing, but there was also the constant understanding that healing might come in Heaven.

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Another June arrived, along with another string of earth-shattering words, “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like she will beat the cancer.”

We were given the choice to take her home for her last days on earth. What a bitter thought that we had any control over this devastating event. We knew her healing was out of our hands. We left the hospital the final time, drove into the driveway, and were met by family who all wanted to spend quality time with her. She played out in the yard, flew kites, soared in the swing, and walked to the horse corral with her big brother. She rode her tricycle, held a tea party, and went on a fishing trip. Gradually, her steps slowed; she lay on the couch more often, watched movies, and cuddled with her family who were forced to watch her life ending before their eyes.

After three weeks, she closed her eyes for the last time and opened them to the face of Jesus. As God healed her in Heaven, He also filled me with peace that she was truly healed. She would never again face the painful things of this life. I continue to lean on His comfort as He carries through my days of grief. I also share her story because it points to His story.