There are times in life that leave you breathless. The beauty of a sunset. The laughter of a child. The look of love in your spouse’s eyes. These moments are forever etched in your mind. But what about the times that leave you breathless from fear? We desperately cling to the good memories while we try to bury the later ones. Sweep them under the rug with little more than a nod to the pain. I found myself in one of these hauntingly breathless moments here recently. Justin recently had to have surgery for a collapsed lung. Due to a series of very unfortunate events, I found myself kneeling next to his hospital bed in tears, watching as he writhed in pain. The pain meds they had given him weren’t working and they were unable to get in touch with the doctor. He would pass out from the pain and there would be 30-45 seconds of stillness. His muscles were still contracted, and you could still see he was in pain, but he was at least unaware of it for those brief seconds. Then his body would jerk, and he was back in full agony. It was a combination of feeling like I was in a dream and yet painfully aware of every moment that passed. I kept calling the nurses in to try and get something to help, they kept reaching out to the doctors with no success. He passed out again. I looked at his face and realized that his lips were blue, looked at his hand I was holding, and his nails were blue. I moved his hand and there was no response. No groans of agony. I raced out and called the nurses in. To make a long story short, I had just watched my son code. He wasn’t breathing, his pulse was weak, and he was unresponsive. His room turned into complete chaos as nurses flooded in. Calling orders, saying his name over and over, asking him to respond. I found myself in a corner on the floor knowing I had to stay out of the way so they could do their job. I cried and prayed as I listened to them try to bring my son back. Thankfully they were able to wake him up by giving him a dose of Narcan. They transferred him up to the ICU for the next two days so he could be monitored more closely. The ICU nurse’s best guess is that he was overdosed on Morphine and it caused him to code. I was recently pressure washing our back patio. I hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten until I started. A years’ worth of dirt began to yield its hold on the concrete. Little tiny specks of asphalt came spraying up. With each rain a little of our roof makes its way to the patio. Finding its way into all the little holes and crevices. Something white started to show through and I realized it was the overspray from a project I did a few years back. It was faded but it wasn’t about to let go. Just like that I was back in the moment. The smell of the paint, the sun on my back, the new life and purpose I had just created out of an old object. It made me realize that single events and years of constant rain both leave their marks. One leaves it all at once and is easy to pinpoint. The other slowly changes you, one tiny little speck of asphalt at a time, until you are fully covered. There were two choices, let the patio continue to discolor and get slimy, or do the work to clean it. As you slowly begin to pull back and remove each speck you sometimes find overspray from a previous life event. The event in the hospital will leave an overspray that will always be a part of who I am. It will fade and life will slowly start to cover it up, but it will never fully go away. Just like there will always be specks of asphalt no matter how much I pressure wash. After getting Justin home I’ve had a dizzying array of emotions. I sat on the back patio and tried to look at them. The heartbreak of almost losing a child, the joy of having him home safe, the fear of knowing life is fragile, the gratitude to God for allowing him to stay. If I’ve learned nothing else from this event it’s to treasure every minute. The storms, the sunny days, the days when you can’t seem to wipe the dog poop off your shoes. Don’t ignore them. Don’t try to cover them up. Live in the moment. Rest in the fact that God is in control even when it doesn’t feel like it. In that hospital room, as I knelt on the ground crying out to God to save my son, regardless of the outcome I knew He was there. I am beyond grateful that He answered yes to my prayers!!