“Mama, can I do anything to help?” 

“Thank you…Just get in the van.” I said through clenched teeth as I wrestled a tantrum throwing Finley into her car seat. 

It was Sunday. I had made it through another church service and I had successfully retreated to our 18 year old mini van with all four kids without talking to anyone. That was the goal on most Sundays. Arrive late, be present, head out the door asap. That is all I had to offer…just make it through a service. 

Finley was mad leaving the service. She usually is sad after worship ends and cries and cries and cries. Very loudly. 

That particular Sunday she proceeded to scream all the way home. The big three kids were trying everything they could to help her to calm down. 

“Finley, do you want to sing?”…Paisley started singing and Finley screamed louder. 

“Finley, are you hungry?” Jones offered a banana. 

“Finley, look at the cars.” Macrae tried. 

 Nothing would work. 

I gripped the steering wheel tighter and started breathing deeper. My chest was tight and all I could do was stay as quiet as possible to calm the storm inside of me. 

I clumsily got my five year old out of the van. The big three grabbed all of our stuff. 

Finley screamed in my ear as we walked up the front steps. I felt myself beginning to break. I could not find the keys to unlock the front door. Rummaging around my purse, holding Finley with the other arm while she screamed and screamed my biceps and back screamed at me to put her down. Finley thrashed backward like she does when she is excited or angry and I nearly dropped her. 

“Finley, knock it off!” I was beginning to unravel. She quieted down for about two seconds and then started screaming again. 

Finally I found my keys. We got inside and I sat her down on the couch. She continued to scream. 

I snapped. I stayed quiet but began to rip off her shoes and throw them with all my strength across the room. THUD! One shoe hit the wall. THUD! Another shoe planted and fell on top of the first shoe. 

I could feel the big kids eyes on me but I did not care. I undid one of Finley’s braces and threw it. WACK! Plastic hit drywall. It landed on top of the shoes. I pulled off the other one. WHACK! The brace bounced off the pile of madness I had thrown in quiet furiosity. 

“Turn on a show for your sister.” I half yelled spun on my heel towards the stairs. I half ran up to my bedroom. Trying to contain the monster that was clawing it’s way out of me. I knew if I stayed downstairs a moment longer I would do or say something I would regret. So I fled.

I ran down our hall, into our bedroom and slammed the door. 

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” I punched our bed. I threw each and every decorative pillow off. Hurling them across the room as hard as I could. I found fractional relief in the physicality of hurling pillows across the room. 

Collapsing to the floor, I sobbed my anger and frustration and self pity and exhaustion. 

I was so angry at God. I knew he could change our situation in an instant if he wanted too. I had prayed for years the big prayers of faith for Finley’s healing and the small, more reasonable prayers like “please help her put a spoon in her mouth,” or “please help her to drink from a straw” (she was five and drinking from a bottle. Would she be twenty five and drink from a bottle?) 

I had diligently done all of the home therapies given to me by Finley’s therapists over the years. I had even been told many times that I did “more than most parents” or “we wish every parent would be as consistent as you” or “you should teach a feeding course on how to help your kid gain weight in a healthy way” (people with CP burn up to five times the amount of energy and are usually incredibly thin.) Despite all the hard work, Finley seemed to make microscopic progress, while others with her same diagnosis seemed to be making leaps and bounds. 

Once a therapist told me that “more recent studies show that kids who have less help do better because they have to do things for themselves in order make it.” In my head I was thinking, “then what the hell am I doing all of this for?! Why all the compliments. Maybe my home therapy should be-do nothing.” But instead I swallowed by anger knowing it was not directed toward this kind therapist. I smiled and responded with, “that’s interesting.” 

As I lay on the floor, trying to catch my breath, I knew God wasn’t going to change our situation. And I knew he had good reason. Reason that I cannot understand and may never see. But on that Sunday, in that moment, all I knew is I wanted out of this life where I avoid people and where my five year old screams and can’t walk or talk or crawl or feed herself. I wanted out.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in.” I barely got out.

“Mama, are you ok?”

My poor kids. They must be terrified. I heard three pairs of feet shuffle into my room and stand around me where I lay on the floor. My eyes were closed. 

“I’m not ok, guys.” I said softly. 

“Can we make you some eggs?” 

I half-smiled despite myself. Sweet, thoughtful Jones. 

“That would be great. Thank you. Can you guys pray for me?” 

“Sure, Mama.” 

They prayed sweet prayers over and for me. Asking God to help me. 

“Thank you. I am going to stay here for awhile.” 

“Ok, Mama.” 

I heard them all shuffle back out. I reached for my phone that miraculously was in my back pocket. (I never have my phone on me)

“I’m not ok.” I typed out to Matt. He was responsible that day for our church’s announcements and was at the second service. 

“What’s going on?” He typed back. 

“I am mad. I threw Finley’s braces and shoes. I’m on the floor. I can’t get up.”

“I am coming home.” He responded. 

A slight relief washed over me as I read his words. 

Jones tiptoed in at some point and put a small plate of eggs down on the floor near where I lay. 

“Here you go, Mama.”

“Thanks, bud.” 

He closed the door. I think I drifted off to sleep and awoke to Matt walking through the bedroom door. The sight of his shoes brought relief to my body. 

“Hey.” He said as he knelt beside me. 

“I’m sorry.” I started to cry. 

“Just cry.” He said. “Get it all out.” 

I cried a lot. I had scared myself and scared my kids and scared my husband that day.

Later I would apologize to the kids for frightening them. Later I would thank them for being so gracious and kind. Later I would ask how all of it had made them feel and they would share and I would apologize again. Later we would hug and the gracious gift children seem too ready to give would wrap my heart up like a cozy blanket on a cold night in front of a fire.