From a mom perspective, I see her misshapen overgrown parts too.
I hear her breathing throughout the night as resistance snores air into the room around her. Then her chest moves, but no air circulates. I watch closely. After two breathless chest heaves, she gasps, maintaining her sleep state and eventually returning to the rhythm her snore song.
At mealtime plates of food are nibbled on like a tiny fish swam in to take the bait, but were scared off. What she does attempt to eat bounces back and forth in her throat like a ball in a pin-ball machine waiting for gravity and momentum to push it through the shrunken opening.
Over the last few weeks less and less effort was given to push pin-balls of food through her crowded throat. More effort was exerted to breathe and stay breathing. She slept longer and played less.
Breathe. In and out. Breathe. Forget about lunch. Breathe.
They need to go. These God given immune system watchguards have taken over. What should serve her quietly and effortlessly have now moved out of their jurisdiction. They’ve become the focus of her days and the stealer of strength.
The surgeon took one look at her throat and said, “Well, you know what’s coming, right?”
Surgery was scheduled for a week later.
It’s a routine surgery they say. How is any surgery routine? Cutting away body parts is violent.
Even if it is just the little mushroom tops of her tonsils.
We didn’t discuss it with her right away. But she knew. Her silence said it all.
For her: Asking made it real. Will it hurt?
For me: Telling made it real. It’s going to hurt before it gets better.
I waited until the last minute.
Now anesthesia gas huffs through a mask and puts her to sleep. I remember the seething medicinal smell of cold institutional operating rooms from my clinical days. The harsh light drenches the skinny metal table propping up my girl’s body; the metal leeches the warmth from my her soft flesh.
Shadows and bodies hover over her with good intentions. But do they see her soul? Or is she just a figure of sinews, veins and pulsing organs?
Foreign instruments clog her well of sweet words. A surgeon probes her hotdog like fingers into my little girl’s tiny mouth. A mouth that, moments ago, bubbled laughter out in tiny bursts of giggles that filled the room and tickled my ears.
The process is rote. Cut at this demarcation. Push. Pull. Flush. Slice. Suction. Suture. Cauterize. Rinse. Done.
Now, Wait.
Next they will roll her into a quiet corner of the post anesthesia care unit. In the dim lighting, a whirring hum of oxygen blows through a mask, and soft dings of monitors on the lowest volume create white noise that fills the room like drizzling rain .
They call me in to meet her. I climb in the bed, rest my lips on her forehead, and cradle her close as I smooth her shiny dark brown locks.
In the days ahead she needs some time to adjust and heal. But I reorganized our schedule and pushed my work into next week. She is our top priority for the next several days.
Is there something in your life that started out as a gift but has now taken over?
Now you feel the nudge of God that something is out of balance and needs to be cut. Maybe the surgery/ pruning process has already started and it hurts.
During the pruning we wonder, Where did I go wrong? How could I let these things grow out of control in my life? What’s wrong with me?
Our thoughts get muddled while meditating on our faults. We equate our worth with the value of our flaw.
I must be broken or useless because of this, we reason.
So we gather ourselves together in big girl mode and say, this is what God wants me to go through so Ill tough it out. But the truth is we don’t have to suck it up this way.
The pruned pieces are not the whole of who you are. They are the dead weight. Don’t mistake God’s removal of the dead weight as God’s disapproval of you.
The remainder is you. And you are fully His kid and fully loved, before and after the pruning. He’s cutting it out because He loves you and wants you to have your best life.
Who is He to You?
If you close your eyes and picture God standing in front of you, who does He resemble more? The exacting surgeon who may or may not care about your soul. Or the mom or dad whose heart flinches and bruises at the smallest thought of causing you pain.
He’s both.
The Surgeon.
He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. (John 15:2)
and,
The Nurturing Mother.
I will comfort you there like a mother comforting her child. (Is 66:13, CEV)
His mother-like tenderness is as strong and transforming as his parental discipline.
In fact, His tenderness is more restorative than the discipline. We need both. And He gives both.
…your right hand supported me and your gentleness made me great.” Psalm 18:35
Heavenly Father, this pruning process hurts. But I know it has a purpose, and you have good plans for me in it. You are precise and accurate in your estimation of what needs to go from my life. I trust you and surrender to the pruning process. And I know you don’t disapprove and distance yourself from me. I see you standing in the doorway of heaven’s surgical theater, at the ready, with hugs and forehead kisses to soothe the pain. You have made me great!
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