A Liturgy for the Mom Walking through a Child’s Diagnosis

We were standing in the checkout line at Old Navy, arms full of sale items, when my daughter experienced her first grand mal seizure. As I sat barefoot on the grimy sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance with my child limp in my arms, five friendly strangers arrived, seemingly out of nowhere. They encircled us, hands on knees in a protective stance. 

“Don’t shake her,” said the man, kindness woven through his voice. “Just hold her still. Say her name. Remember, now: don’t shake her. She’s going to be alright.” Next to him stood a woman in scrubs. One glance told me she knew what she was talking about: “You’re doing just fine, mama. Keep her on her side. She’s coming through it now. The ambulance will be here soon.” A third person echoed the encouragement of the others with her gentle presence. 

Two women on my right, strangers to me and to one another, started praying. Back and forth their prayers moved, woven together like a seam binding together a fraying edge. It was like nothing I had ever heard before.

The ambulance arrived and my daughter was placed safely on the stretcher. I looked back, eager to thank my helpers through tears. “You’re going to be alright,” one said, her care directed as much toward me as toward my daughter. From that moment—the start of a life-changing diagnosis and difficult medical journey—God has met us in profound and beautiful ways. 

The Bruises of Motherhood

In the weeks that followed, more seizures occurred. We spent much time in the neurologist’s office, trying to settle into our new norm. While my daughter had a doctor looking out for her needs, I was shocked by the way my own body reacted. Bouts of dizziness kept me from driving. A lack of appetite led to extreme weight loss. The inability to fall asleep presented a need for medication. My daughter took the medical blow, but she wasn’t the only one with bruises. 

Over time, I worked through my natural trauma response and was eventually able to drive, eat, and sleep without assistance. And we eventually found a medication that worked for our girl’s seizures. Our prayer is that she will never have another, but we do not know what the future holds for her—or any of our children. 

Romans 15:13 says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.” As we live out the mystery of one child’s story, we learn what it feels like in mind, body, and soul to entrust all our children to God. A chronic diagnosis helps us regularly exercise conscious, moment-by-moment dependence on God. Because of our journey, I can testify to the truth: the more we entrust ourselves to his care, the more his joy and peace overflows into other areas of our lives, as well as the lives of others. It’s one gift of parenting a child who has been given a diagnosis. 

The Father’s Faithfulness

Not long after our daughter’s seizures stabilized, another of our children started showing signs of an autoimmune disease. This time, my emotional response surprised me. Yes, there was sorrow over my child’s pain and struggle but also a sense of anticipation for how the Lord would show himself faithful in the midst of this new trial. God had been present with us in tangible ways I never could have imagined during the first medical journey. I knew he would open our eyes to his strength and goodness through the second one as well. Isaiah 46:4 says, “Even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” I couldn’t wait to see how he was going to fulfill that promise. 

It has been a long, long way from easy, and we are not finished with either of these diagnoses. Our children may always need ongoing medical help in this lifetime. But we know our Father promises never to leave or forsake us.[1] He promises to sustain and eventually even rescue us.[2] We can leave the specifics of that rescue to him.  

The Rest in God’s Hammock

Because of the wild, creative, and almost bizarre ways we have seen God show up, we have grown in our ability to rest in his hammock-like love for us. When one child’s beloved neurologist retired, when another’s medicine was on backorder with no idea of delivery time, and when we had to leave both girls in the care of a school nurse for the first time, God cradled us in his presence and in his love. The more I see him at work in the lives of my daughters through their medical challenges, the more I am able to throw my weight into his promise to go with us every moment of our lives, all the way into glory.[3] 

So, for the mother who finds herself dizzy with grief or dealing with the shock of a child’s diagnosis and all its ramifications, I offer this prayer. Jesus can empathize with your child—and with you—in the deepest of ways. 

Creator God,[4]
who breathes life into everything that lives.
You knit this child together 
deep in the womb.
For many months, 
she grew and I dreamed
of the life she would lead
of the laughs we would love.
She was born, and she inhaled your exhale: 
the very breath of life. 
But now, a diagnosis makes even my own breath 
feel jagged and raw.  
Would you create new life and fresh joy in spite of our pain?

Father God,[5]
as I watch her hurt,
it feels as though a seam-ripper
has torn my heart.
You know the weakness of my frame.
You see me in this pain. 
When my daughter gets hot, 
Oh Father God, 
I am the one who sweats. 
When she is sad, it’s my tears that fall. 
Surely you knew this would be our path, 
since the very start. 
Father God, would you help me to trust you even now?

Sustainer God,[6]
she and I, 
though separate beings, 
are mysteriously interwoven. 
Because she can’t do the things she’s always done
I can’t seem to remember how do the things I’ve always done:
how to eat
how to sleep
how to breathe
how to laugh
how to drive
how to be. 
Oh God, would you sustain us in ways both big and small today? 

Omnipresent God,[7] 
As we live moment-by-moment
in the doctor’s office
at school
with the pharmacist
on the playground
at the hospital 
around the dinner table
in the homes of friends and family
at church
on my child’s bed
in the day and in the night, 
Would you go before us, behind us, and beside us every moment?[8]

Savior Jesus,[9]
Help me to rest in the hammock of your
love and sovereignty. 
Help me to do this hard thing 
you’ve ordained for me to do
with the strength you promise to give to the weak.
Please stitch up the brokenness in my child’s body.
And please seal up the holes in my heart. 
It is only because you—
the very One who breathes life into everything that lives—
it is only because you died that any of us may live. 
Breathe new life on us today. 

In your name, 

Amen

[1] Heb. 13:5; Deut. 31:6; Josh. 1:9

[2] Deut. 32:36; Ps. 55:22; Ps. 73:26; Is. 41:10

[3] Matt. 28:20; Rom. 8:38-39

[4] Gen. 1:1; Neh. 9:6; Col. 1:16 

[5] Is. 64:8; 1 Cor. 8:6; Eph. 4:6

[6] Ps. 33:6-9; Jer. 32:17

[7] Ps. 139:7-12; Jer. 23:23-24; Matt. 28:20

[8] Deut. 31:8-9

[9] Acts 4:12; Rom. 10:9; 1 John 4:14