I am the mother of a daughter who will never grow up.
She was my fourth baby, my second daughter. Born with a mop of dark hair and an angel-kiss birth mark in the center of her forehead. Maybe I should have recognized it as a sign that the angels had marked her for themselves.
She got sick. The flu, I thought.
But then the seizures started, and she wouldn't wake up.
Travis, my husband, raced us to the hospital, while I held her in the backseat.
Her body convulsing, fingers tangled in my hair, moans like animal cries.
The second we came through the doors at Primary Children's Medical Center, the ER doctor knew Elora was in trouble.
He ordered a CT scan of her head.
Sitting across from us in metal folding chairs, he unfolded a white piece of printer paper with a black and white printout of Elora's brain.
"It's a tumor."
But we found it too late.
By early the next morning, she was gone.
It's a scar. Cut into the flesh of my heart.
A wound that will never leave me.
And yet, I would never want it to.
Because that scar has come to symbolize not only the deep pain of losing a child, but it is the price I paid to know for myself that Christ is real, and His promises are sure.
He promised each of us--
--and that is exactly what He did for me.
When I thought that I would be crushed by my grief, He helped me to carry it.
When I thought that my heart would break, He held it together.
When I knew I could not stand, or walk, He held me up.
I can look back and see His hand guiding me through the darkness.
He is the one who taught me how to survive.
But even more, He taught me that there is hope, comfort, and peace even in the midst of grief.
