I see her chin quiver. Fear of the unknown is taking over. Mommy, why am I here? What is here? Why are you holding me down? Why does the nurse keep tapping my arm?
She pulls brave from her toes and cries, God is bigger than da boogie man. And he watching you an me.
Everyone in the ER can hear her tiny testament of faith in a big God who knew this day would come.
And isn't that what my heart was whispering all day: when I walked in the room and saw them chew and gulp the last pill - extra strength Tylenol. No regular strength pain killers in this house. God is bigger.
And didn't I hear it when I tried to call poison control, only to find out that my phone could only operate on speaker phone? Something about the tea I sloshed into the headphone port. God is bigger.
What about when the pediatrician kept me on hold so long my phone died all together? God is bigger.
Or when I walked into the emergency room carrying 50 pounds of squirming, scared, barefoot, overdosed toddlers? God is bigger.
Wasn't it there all along? God whisper, "I'm bigger than this day. I saw you stupidly put the Tylenol in a discarded mint tin. I saw big one's fingers reach for it. I saw her share so generously with sissy. Now you've seen it. Do you trust me?"
As I fought with the broken seat belt to "please for the love buckle!" I recalled Ann Voskamp writing that when we chose Satan's ways under stress, we tell God that his methods aren't expedient enough, aren't adequate for this day. Just give me patience and peace and faith on the easy days. I'll take irritation and frustration and snatching and screaming for the hard days.
God is bigger than my stress response too.
Here we are, four hours later. Big one looks at me. Do I believe her song?
So I sing, "God is bigger than the boogie man. He's bigger than Godzilla or the monsters on TV. O, God is bigger than the boogie man, and he's watching out for you and me."
The truth of that simple VeggieTales tune hits hard, and I hide tears with a kiss on her forehead. God is bigger than this whole day, and His eyes never left us.
The non-dramatized version of the day:
As I was transferring car seats so we could go to church, the girls pulled the time of Tylenol out of my purse and crunched on 5 or 6. We spent the morning in the ER waiting for blood levels to peak. After 4 hours, their levels were in the 'low risk' range. Their little livers metabolized wonderfully. Mostly waiting and watching for an mercifully anticlimactic finish. Momma, Daddy and girls are all fine after a good night's sleep.