I didn’t dare move a muscle. Breathe in, breathe out, quiet, shallow, in, out. Don’t move. My son was finally asleep cradled in my arms against my chest. If I could just not move or breathe, maybe, just maybe he would sleep for 15-20 minutes and for that 15-20 minutes there would be no screaming and he wouldn’t feel the pain and I could rest—sort of.

Once, as a young mom, I remember saying to a more experienced mom, “God has given my son to me to care for and love on this earth. But, he isn’t really mine. He’s God’s. It’s my job to love him well.” She murmured words of agreement as her eyebrows rose and a somewhat sad, knowing half-smile filled her face. It was several years later I learned she had lost her eldest child in an accident many years before, long before I knew her, and I finally realized the significance of that knowing smile.

Somewhere between the time I made that statement and the birth of my second child, with the entry of additional needs in our lives, I forgot those wise words and the perspective I had once held. Somehow, I took upon myself the weight and responsibility for how my son’s health journey progressed, how comfortable he was or wasn’t, for trying to alleviate his pain, and when I couldn’t, for comforting him and being with him every moment through his pain.

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Source: Special Needs Parenting- Key Ministry

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