Our lives are a tapestry of moments, each one part of a story. Some are dark and coarse, while others are smooth and welcoming. But all are part of a whole, a display of splendor, a glory story written by the hand of God.

This book we’re writing is our testimony. Some moments are lovely and miraculous, while others are deep and dark. Memorial Day 2011 was a dark day. You can read about Hannah’s accident here in “ The Day Time Split in Half “. It sparked a journey we never saw coming, but have found unimaginable treasures along the way.

We’d like to share with you a little more of the book, so here is Part 1 of Chapter 3. Chapter 2 will only be found in the book (wink wink).

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My feet carried me inside those hospital doorways and down the sterile halls, my frantic heart beat racing past the echo of memories, I narrowed only for the faces of Hannah and Eric.

I found them surrounded by doctors and nurses, everyone in blue scrubs, nervously glancing back and forth with hushed tones on their lips. There were tubes everywhere and monitors beeping in alarming tones. With all the people swarming around her it was hard for me to get near. Eric was right there, though. He stroked her hand and leaned in close. Intense love stricken all over his face, he was whispering in her ear. You could see it, that deep, fierce, fatherly love. I love that about him. Right there stood my heart, love in the shape of a Daddy hovered over our promised legacy. Despite the dire circumstances and urgent responses, he would not be moved aside. Hannah needed to hear her Daddy’s voice declaring love and strength over her. And Eric needed to be there to say it. Time was nothing here, ticking by only in heart beats.

It was evident from the moment we arrived, that Littleton Hospital didn’t have what Hannah needed, other than a helicopter. This was only a stepping stone along a twisted diversion we never saw coming. Almost immediately after arriving they began prepping her for air travel. Doctors began using words like “medically induced coma” and “brain injury”.  The whispers of fear encroaching like dread.  Along with life saving measures, now medications were being introduced to induce a coma, in an attempt to minimize any swelling in her brain. She was dangerously critical and everyone knew it, needing more evaluation and specialized care than they could offer. Doctors and Nurses rushed around all while my little girl lay lifeless. We had one brief but reassuring moment when Hannah opened her eyes and looked directly at Eric. She squeezed his hand and then drifted back into the deep.

A chaplain joined the swarm, and bless his heart, he was there simply to do the job of comforting us. I may have yelled at him. You see, he came in with the tenderness of a cat and wanted to tread lightly around the “what ifs” and “maybes” that were all boiling in our souls. We didn’t need or want those “what ifs” and probabilities, in fact they needed to be shoved back out the door and down the trash chute. We didn’t have time for what ifs, we needed ‘have to’s’ and ‘will dos’. With hot tears I firmly told him he wasn’t allowed to pray “maybe’s” and beg for “if’s”, “We are standing firmly for her life” I shouted and then I walked out.

Stepping out into the hallway, I was greeted by two people holding note pads, pen’s poised. As I approached they stepped out to talk, questions lingering in their eyes. Something about this anticipated conversation kept me guarded. Perhaps it was the all too familiar feeling that begins in your gut and works its way to your knees. I had been here before, and in a flash it was summer 1999 and I was gripping the yellow blankets that had swaddled my Marya. These two today began asking questions about who and where and what had happened all while my stomach twisted in knots and panic raged in my veins. I could only answer with “this makes no sense, no sense at all” until I couldn’t breathe through their probing any longer.

“Now is not the time to do this, please excuse me.” I wanted to run, to scream, to pound the walls.

Hot tears still brimming, I made my way back out to the waiting room. Eric had made some calls to friends and a few church leaders before we’d left the pool and the fruit of those calls had already arrived at the hospital. It was soothing to have both family and faithful friends surround us, even in the maddening chaos. I grabbed a hold of my friend’s arm. I needed help, I needed their strength, their faith. We needed to be surrounded, girded and I needed reminders to hold on while the ground was shaking.

Looking back, these moments are surreal, nightmare-ish almost. Adrenaline does amazing things to the instinctual acts of protecting one’s child. In a flash of seconds you move from pondering life’s transitions to mechanically moving through an avalanche of them. This Memorial Day was one of the darkest and most frightening days ever to rotate through our calendar but pulsating deep through our souls was an assurance I cannot explain with any other word than ‘faith’.

Separately in the midst of all of this trauma, yet again, God gave a confirming and affirming word for both Eric and I to “Stand”. Stand on the character of an unseen God. Stand on the assurance of Hannah’s life purpose. Stand for the faith that had not yet failed us, not even in the slightest. Stand on the abilities God had given us, the authority He’d given us as parents. “Stand”, He said. So we did, beginning at the scene of the accident. And we would stand over and over and over again,In a million different ways over the months and years ahead.  We never stood on what our eyes could see, quite the opposite, we found our place to stand on something far deeper than what the eyes can behold, a deep place of knowing, a hidden place of hope.

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This Journey will continue in Part 2 ~ after our  Beyond The Shore Series  coming this TUESDAY!!