Last night, my 11-year-old daughter was lying in a hospital bed while doctors and nurses tried to figure out what was happening inside her little body. Her resting heart rate had climbed alarmingly high. She was shaking and sweating, and eventually the fear of what she was feeling began to overwhelm her too. Before we ever made the decision to go to the ER, her big sister, who is in nursing school, checked her heart rate and immediately became concerned about how elevated it was. She encouraged us to take her in. I am so thankful for that big sister and her big old heart toward her little bitty sister. There is something incredibly beautiful about watching your children grow up and begin caring for one another in ways you couldn’t have imagined when they were little.

Once we arrived at the ER, they took her back quickly and began trying to figure out what was going on. Her heart rate was elevated, her white blood cell count was elevated, and her bilirubin was elevated. They ran an EKG, chest X-rays, swabs, an ultrasound, bloodwork, and other testing. They gave her fluids and antibiotics through her IV and watched her for several hours. We didn’t walk away with perfectly clear answers about what had caused everything, only the knowledge that her body appeared to be working really hard to fight something.

She was so brave.

I watched my little girl endure needle sticks, machines, questions, tests, uncertainty, exhaustion, and fear. I was so proud of her. I love her so much that sometimes I don’t know how to adequately put it into words.

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, while I was trying to take notes and keep track of everything happening around us, she said something that made the entire room disappear for a moment.

I actually stopped her and asked her to repeat it because I wanted to make sure I understood what she had just said.

She reminded me about a time this past year when her sister Molly had been sick. Everyone had been taking care of Molly because we didn’t want her to get worse. Then she said, “You know how sympathetic I am? You know I don’t like people getting hurt.”

I do know that about her.

She has one of the most tender hearts I have ever encountered. She notices suffering. She feels other people’s sadness deeply. When someone else hurts, some part of her seems to hurt alongside them.

Then she told me about a prayer she had prayed.

She said she had asked God if He could take Molly’s sickness, and really anyone’s sickness, pain, and suffering and put it into her body instead.

I just stared at her for a moment with curiosity and compassion.

“Why?” I whispered.

She didn’t really know how to explain it. She simply didn’t want other people to hurt. Then, lying there in that hospital bed herself, she said something that broke my heart.

“Now I think He answered that prayer mommy.”

I placed one hand on her sweet cheek and the other into her hand and I held her.  Oh, sweet girl. I realized there was something very important I needed to teach my 11-year-old about prayer, compassion, and the beautiful heart God has given her.

I told her, “How about we ask God to take it all away and instead of placing it inside your body we can ask him to take it away and put it under the feet of Jesus.  How about we ask that He completely heals you? You don’t have to be everybody’s hero.”

Without hesitation, she answered, “I want to help people momma.”

I asked her to look at me. She tried to explain that when other people are hurting, it makes her feel horrible. If she could take their pain instead, then maybe they could be happy. They could be with their families. They could have fun. “But we want you to be with your family and have fun too,” I told her.

That conversation felt sacred.  There are moments in this journey called motherhood that you know you are going to remember differently from all the others. They aren’t necessarily the planned moments or the photographs you frame. Sometimes they happen under fluorescent hospital lights in the middle of exhaustion and uncertainty, when your child says something so innocent and profound that you realize you are being entrusted with a tiny glimpse into who she is becoming.

I never want to forget this one. I never want to forget the little girl lying in that hospital bed who was experiencing her own pain and uncertainty and was still thinking about everyone else’s.

As her mother, though, I also realized that protecting this beautiful part of her heart means teaching her what to do with it.

I don’t want to teach her to care less. I don’t want the world to harden the tenderness out of her. I don’t want her to stop noticing hurting people or lose that instinct that says, “If you’re hurting, I want to help.”

I do need to teach her that compassion does not require her destruction.

She does not have to hurt so someone else can heal. She does not have to become sick so someone else can become well. She does not have to absorb another person’s suffering to prove that she loves them.

She can bring their suffering to Jesus. Maybe the prayer I need to teach her is different: “Jesus, they are hurting, and I love them because you love them. Please take their pain. Please comfort them. Please heal what needs healing. Show me how I can love them well, and help me trust You with what I cannot carry.”

She can sit beside hurting people. She can hold their hands. She can pray for them. She can serve them. She can advocate for them. She can cry with them. She can bring them food. She can notice when something isn’t right. She can even be the big sister who checks a little sister’s heart rate one day and says, “I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

There are so many ways to love people without becoming their suffering.

Maybe that’s part of what struck me so deeply about my daughters last night. One sister loved by paying attention, recognizing that something wasn’t right, and encouraging us to seek help. Another sister revealed that her instinct when someone she loves is hurting is to ask if she can somehow take the hurt instead.

Two sisters. Two enormous hearts. One very grateful mama.

At one point I looked at my little girl and told her, “You have the heart of Jesus. That’s how I know you know Him.”

I meant it.

Now I realize part of my responsibility is teaching her that having the heart of Jesus doesn’t mean she has to be Jesus. She doesn’t have to save everyone. She doesn’t have to volunteer to carry every sickness, every sadness, every trauma, or every burden she encounters. She can love people deeply and still be a child. She can care fiercely and still protect her own heart. She can pray boldly and ask God to carry what is much too heavy for her little shoulders.

I don’t ever want her to lose this tenderness. I just want to teach her where to put it. Under the feet of Jesus.

Last night was scary. We were tired. There were tests and needles and machines and numbers I didn’t completely understand. There were questions we still didn’t have clear answers to. Yet tucked inside all of that uncertainty was one of the most tender conversations I have ever had with one of my little girls.

I will never forget it. I don’t ever want to forget it.

Someday she won’t be 11 anymore. Someday she may not remember exactly what she said from that hospital bed. So I am writing it down because I want her to know who she was in this moment.

She was brave.

She was hurting.

She was scared.

She was deeply loved.

In the middle of her own suffering, she was still thinking about how she could make somebody else’s suffering disappear. 

As I am laying next to her listening to the sounds of her breathing as her chest is rising and falling.   I am grateful.  I am also praying for my sweet girl to keep that heart. Keep loving people. Keep noticing. Keep praying. Keep caring.

But please remember what your mama told you in that hospital room: You don’t have to be everybody’s hero. You get to be somebody’s little girl too. We want you right here with us. 

She also decided maybe God is allowing her to go through this so she can help other children. She asked to visit hospitals where kids are having to be poked with needles and do something for them! 🥹. Let’s get you better first and then yes! Let’s go love that way! Oh my heart!

Always & Forever

❤️Mommy