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“The good Lord will raise you up on eagles’ wings. He will cover you with his feathers and offer you his comfort once more.”
Comfort. What kind of comfort could Susannah expect after all she’d been through?
Grandma Lucy was still going strong, without offering any hint that she was getting tired or preparing to wind down her speech. “The Lord is faithful, and he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.”
It was a verse Susannah had been thinking about a lot lately. Carry it on to completion. Well, maybe for some people. Strong believers like Grandma Lucy, who spent most of their lives on the mission field serving God. Or Scott, with his passion for the lost guiding everything he did.
Susannah might have been like that. She wanted to be like that. Wanted to have the same kind of faith that would sustain her as she traveled to the remotest parts of the earth, following God wherever his Spirit might lead. But she’d made a promise. A promise she refused to break.
A promise that would dictate the rest of her life.
God, I’m so sorry for complaining. I hate that I’m becoming so resentful.
A promise. A promise she’d been happy to give when her mom was healthy, when the future was bright, when it seemed like Susannah would have decades ahead of her. Decades of freedom, adventure, love.
Why did you have to take her away so soon? Susannah prayed as the uninvited, ugly thought she’d been fighting crept up into her consciousness: It shouldn’t have been Mom.
It was a hideous thought. A hideous thing to wish, but there it was, staring her in the face like an infected bedsore.
It shouldn’t have been Mom.
She let out a choppy breath as Grandma Lucy recited the familiar passage from Isaiah. “Those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
Over the course of her life, Susannah’s mom had made her memorize dozens, probably hundreds of Bible verses. Learning Scripture was as regular a part of the family routine as praying before meals or practicing math facts every day. Her mom was so strong in the faith. Susannah still remembered how strange she’d felt as a little girl hearing her mom cry.
Susannah was five or six, and they had just pulled into the garage after gymnastics classes. Susannah jumped out and stood watching while Mom helped her sister out of her car seat.
“Mom, how old was I when I started walking?”
Mom, somewhat distracted, answered, “I don’t know, hon. Around a year.”
Susannah crossed her arms. Watched the familiar sight of Mom unbuckling Kitty. Making sure not to tangle the seatbelt around her.
“Well, how old’s Kitty gonna be when she learns to walk?”
Mom stopped and stared at her. Had she asked something wrong?
Unease and a hint of unexplained embarrassment warmed Susannah’s tummy, and she tried to think of what she could say to cover over any mistake she might have made. “I mean, I was just wondering. Because I was thinking she always smiles so big at gymnastics that I bet she’ll like it once she gets old enough to do it herself.”
Mom sighed. “That’s why we take her to her physical therapy. You know that, babe.”
Susannah frowned. “Yeah, but ...”
Mom shushed her with a quick, “We’ll talk about this inside,” and Susannah clammed up instinctively. Automatically, still unable to erase the strange shame in her belly.
Later that afternoon, while Kitty was napping and Susannah was helping mix some chocolate chip cookie batter, Mom said, “Now about your question earlier.”
Susannah’s cheeks heated. She could tell her curiosity had somehow hurt Mom’s feelings. She stared into the bowl.
Stir, mix, stir.
“There’s something you need to know about Kitty.” Mom was using the same reverent tone she used when she talked about God or Jesus or the Bible or Daddy up in heaven.
Stir, mix, mix.
“Kitty’s a really special girl.”
Suddenly excited that she could now relate to this somewhat strange conversation, Susannah piped up, “I know. She’s the happiest little angel in the world. Isn’t that what you said Daddy use to call her? His little angel?”
Mom gave a smile, but it was full of sadness. Susannah could feel the heaviness from it soak into her own body.
Mix, stir, mix.
“That’s right. That’s what Daddy used to call her. And there’s a good reason for that.”
“I know that too!” Susannah was proud to have the answers for a change. “He called her his angel because she loves God so much. Like how she smiles so big every time you sing her hymns. Hey, I have an idea. When she wakes up, maybe you can play the piano and we’ll have a singalong.”
Mom sighed. “Maybe, but right now your sister needs her rest. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
There it was. That heaviness again.
Stir, stir, mix.
“Kitty’s not as strong as you are. That’s why she takes extra naps each day and why she drinks her special formula instead of having big-girl food like you.”
Susannah frowned. “I thought she just liked it better.” She glanced up at Mom and then back at the bowl.
Mix, mix, mix.
Mom rubbed Susannah’s back. “Kitty’s such a special little angel she’s not going to be able to walk or go to gymnastics or eat cookies like you do.”
“Well, I know that. I’m just talking about later once she gets bigger and can do those things then. Won’t it be fun?”
Mom let out a little cough. What had Susannah said wrong?
Mom was still rubbing her back as if she could erase the stains of Susannah’s misspoken words. “Your sister isn’t ever going to be big enough. She’s always going to need someone to help her. She’s always going to need someone to take care of her.”
Susannah felt the heaviness surrounding her, not the heaviness of Mom’s words but of her entire being. Her mom was tired. For the first time in her life, Susannah realized that.
Mom isn’t as strong as she looks.
“It’s ok, Mom. When I’m big enough I’ll help you take care of Kitty.”
She thought she was doing the right thing. Her promise was supposed to make Mom proud, but instead she turned and walked slowly out of the kitchen. Mom went into the bedroom, but even shutting the door and running the shower water wasn’t enough to muffle the sound of her stifled sobs.