My Only Prayer

I will never forget sitting in the rocking chair with Anders the night before his surgery.  He was ten months old, to the day.  We stuck to his regular routine: I read him a book, nursed him, and then held him against my chest, covered in his beloved blankie, and rocked him as I sang "Baby Mine."  And when I was done singing, I prayed.  That night, instead of laying him down right away, I kept rocking, and I kept praying for a long time.

Never have I depended so deeply on prayer as that time period between my 20 week ultrasound, when we first saw the CCAM, and Anders's recovery in the hospital after a lobe of his lung had been removed.  The night before surgery, all I could pray was, "God, please let me keep him."

Recently a lot of the emotions that Zach and I felt during that time have resurfaced for various reasons.  Sometimes you don't realize how deeply events impacted you until much later when you suddenly realize that you're not the same anymore.  One nagging, yucky feeling that I think has plagued us since surgery has been survivor's guilt.  We know people who have lost children, and we can't understand why we were chosen to keep both of ours.

Irony: Usually those who face loss ask, "Why me?" and yet here I am with two healthy boys asking, "Why me?"

Now, every single time I turn out the light, wrap Anders in his blankie, and sing him his song, I remember begging God to let me keep him. 

When I pray for Anders, I close my eyes and try to think of all I hope God might do in his life, but all I can ever say when I talk to God about Anders is "Thank you, God.  Thank you for Anders." 

There is not much more to be said.