I recognized the emotion instantly, but it didn’t signal the typical dropping of shoulders and continuation of breath.  Instead, it coursed through my veins like a poison, making me twist in shame at my own ugliness.

There were other emotions mixed in.  Deep sadness.  Grave concern.  An intense desire to do something that might help.  Still, the most intense feeling wasn’t despair or worry or the need to assist.  My strongest emotion was the worst one imaginable.  It was relief.

Relief.

A mother announces to the world that her child has cancer.  The child is about the same age as my oldest child.  The relief was overwhelming.  It disgusts me to recall the way it poured over and into and through me like a wave.  I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat as I’m reminded just how flawed I truly am.

I know the mother of this child with cancer, not well, but we would likely hug one another if we happened to be in the same place at the same time.   We would chat about our lives and our kids and our plans.  Three months ago, those plans involved tennis lessons and swim meets and summer vacations.  Today, my plans remain unchanged.  For the other mother, nothing is the same.  She’s no longer filling out camp applications and buying endless amounts of sunscreen for the hot, humid weeks ahead.  Today, that mother’s world revolves around chemotherapy and impossible decisions and life-changing surgery.

From an outsider’s perspective, I can almost understand why this family has been chosen to walk such a difficult road.  They are shining lights in a dim world.  They are amazing examples of what it means to believe in God, to lean on Christ, to spread the truth.  I have no doubt this family’s story will make a positive impact for months and years and generations to come.  Of course, I imagine this family can’t see things from my perspective. They are staggering through this deep, treacherous valley, while I stand securely on top of a hill.

When the announcement came, I wept.  I wept for the ten-year-old child whose world had been shattered into a million unknown pieces.  I wept for her father and her little brothers and sister.  I wept for other children like her who, at this very moment, are experiencing fear and pain and grief no child should ever know.  Most of all, I wept for her mother, who would have to try and pick up the pieces of a life drastically altered, and slowly put them back together in some way that might make sense.    

I’ve prayed for the ten-year-old child.  I’ve prayed for her father and her siblings.  I’ve prayed for healing and health and comfort and encouragement for the months and years of adjustment that lie ahead.  I’ve prayed this child and her family will never have to walk through such a terrifying valley again.  Most of all, I’ve prayed for the child’s mother.  I’ve prayed that one day, when the chemotherapy is over and the surgery is long past, she will wake up one morning and find peace restored in her heart . . .  and she will see the transformed dreams as a perfect plan meant to be fulfilled from the very beginning.  

And after I pray each day for this precious family in the midst of this dreadful battle, I pray for forgiveness.  I pray that God will take my damaged soul and turn it into something good . . . something not so broken . . . something more like Him.  I pray that God will help me become a person who isn’t so selfish, who doesn’t always think of herself first, who loves others as He did. I pray that the next time I hear of a child suffering, the first thing I think won’t be, thank God it’s not my child.

Acts 3:19 "Repent therefore and return, that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord;