9:05

Y'all know by now that I have a proclivity for using the current time in my entries. It's an easy way to start writing when I know I want to share but just don't know how to start or what to say. It's sort of like discussing the weather: It's a harmless, even boring connector to more serious thoughts. So we'll see where I wind up this time.

I'm at home with Brady now, and Adam is in the PICU at CHO with Logan. Per Dr. Sun's orders, my sunshine is heavily sedated, intubated and attached to more machines than I can count. I'm not sure that you know heartbreak until you see your child lying completely helpless on a stark, white bed inside a curtain-lined, flourescent-lit room filled with a dozen other ill children. It's like being kicked in the heart. You want nothing more than to pick him up and hold him and hug him, but you can't. You can simply hold his hand, touch his cheeks or rub his leg. And with Logan this afternoon, even those inocuous, muted gestures of affection were risky, as he grew agitated and thrashed whenever he heard our voices nearby.

On some level, I'm probably still reeling over this afternoon's scare and coping with yet more crushing disappointment. But it's all very metered pain and frustration, probably because I'm tired. Mentally, physically, emotionally tired. Minutes after Dr. Sun let us know what had happened, I felt the anger rise inside my chest and I lashed out at God: WHY?! Why are you continuing to allow these things to happen? Why is my sweet, wonderful Logan such a target for such evil? Why won't you JUST HEAL HIM?!

But there was no response. At least, no words came to mind; no comforting verses surfaced from nowhere, no audible soundbytes floated from heaven and rested on my ear. At first I wondered why; why wasn't I getting confirmation that things were okay, that God was in on what was going on and most importantly, that he was there taking care of Logan? Doesn't He care? How could He do this?

It's torture wondering those things and feeling so helpless. Every time I allow myself to get upset, to get angry, I feel my heart fill with what I can only describe as a toxic, counterproductive rage. And then there's a beat, and I'm faced with two distinct paths: Continued anger, or acceptance. When I choose wisely, my thinking turns in another direction. And it happened that way today.

I remembered that God has given me confirmation of His healing power many times in the past. And I wondered if maybe, just maybe, despite today's happenings, I'm supposed to continue to rest in the Lord. Maybe I'm intended to take what I've already been given and allow it to comfort me now, even though I can't see God at the moment, I can't hear His voice and He hasn't sent me any new, tangible wisdom. After all, that's what faith is all about: Believing -- and continuing to believe -- that God is good and has a plan for all of us, even when things look dark and when times seem most desperate.

If I'm being honest, I can see God working in what happened in the OR. I didn't mention it previously, but Logan's platelets had risen substantially from last week, according to yesterday's lab work. He jumped from 69 to 129 over 4 days. It may not seem a huge deal, but when you consider that he'd been gaining 4 to 5 per day for the past few weeks, 129 was a huge number, and not terribly far off from normal range (low end 150). In addition, his clotting factors were also normal as of yesterday. Without a good platelet count and normal clotting factors, he could've bled out today easily. But he didn't. So I'm thankful to God for anticipating the strike and acting not only in the moment to help Dr. Sun and the team locate and stop the bleed quickly, but pre-emptively as well. What a blessing.

That's not to say that having faith in the midst of trying circumstances is easy. It's not. It's incredibly hard. It's hard to let go of the control, of the notion that somehow, I can fix what's going on with my dear little boy. It's hard to feel helpless. So I do what I can, ceaselessly crying out to God on my sunshine's behalf and bugging all of you to continue praying, to pass this blog on to your praying friends and their friends and their friends and on and on. To ensure that Logan is wrapped in a tightly woven blanket of prayers and held up to God with the hope of receiving His healing touch. My heart aches for that touch; for the fingertip of God to simply brush Logan's cheek and eradicate every evil cell that's taken up residence in his body.

So that's where I am. Or more precisely, where you can find my heart. (Or, even more precisely, the part of my heart that isn't lying on a bed in the PICU at CHO. Because the old saying is true: Having a child is like watching a piece of your heart walk around outside your body.) Despite my worries, my fears, my anguish and my exhaustion, I'm continuing to pray for healing, for God to reach out and brush Logan's cheek. I don't know when it will happen or how, but I wait for it, I pray for it.

In a more immediate term, I pray that the pressure in Logan's brain will remain stable and steady through the next 48 hours, and that whenever they choose to wake him from his induced slumber, he'll still be the wonderful, sweet, incredible boy that God created him to be. I pray that the resection will be rescheduled for as soon as is prudent, and that it will be wildly, unbelievably successful. Because as I believe, God is still in the miracle business, and I may be his mama, but I feel like Logan deserves a truly amazing one.

Please keep praying these things along with me. Please don't be discouraged, because discouraged people fail to pray and give evil a foothold to bring about havoc. Please stay strong for our family and for Logan. Keep your resolve and remember him when you eat breakfast, when you see a child riding a tricycle, when you see a toy car, when the sun sets on another day.

Thank you all and good night.