Just Like That

JUST LIKE THAT.

One game away from playoffs. One game away from continuing a 17-game undefeated winning streak spanning two seasons.

And just like that, football season is over for our senior boy.

The boy who does it all. The boy who gives everything he has to whatever is in front of him. The boy whose talents are so broad and whose abilities seem endless. The boy with the smile that melts hearts, from grandmas to babies. The boy who leads, encourages, works hard, and loves BIG.

A broken and displaced clavicle.

A regular tackling drill that went wonky.

One of those texts from a coach that every sports parent silently begs never to receive.

And just like that, everything changes.

As I sit here writing this, my son is snoring in a recliner, trying to catch little bits of sleep before surgery tomorrow. He's in so much pain that even the narcotics barely seem to touch it. I keep looking over at him, and my heart just hurts.

I hurt for him.

I hurt for this young man who has pushed through so many things with that glass-half-full attitude, who keeps showing up, keeps working, keeps giving, and keeps finding a reason to smile, only to have another hard thing land on his shoulders.

I know I'm his mom, and I'm biased. I know that.

But MAN, do I love watching that kid play football.

His knowledge of the game. His speed, strength, and agility. His "ups". His instincts. His uncanny ability to know where he needs to be and when he needs to be there. His passion. His excitement. The way his entire face lights up when he plays.

My other boys had talent, too. But neither one of them loved this game quite like this kid does.

And beyond the athletic ability, there is the way he leads. The way he encourages others. The way he brings his whole self to something he loves.

Watching him play has been one of the great joys of being his mom.

And now, his senior season is over. The dream of making it to state, of fighting alongside his teammates for something they've worked so hard for, will have to continue without him on the field.

And it HURTS.

I held it together through the hours spent picking him up, the drive to the hospital, the waiting, the tests, and the drive home. I held it together while getting him settled into a recliner, trying to find a position that was at least somewhat less painful.

And then I went to my room and sobbed.

Because sometimes the weight of everything catches up to you all at once.

This year has already held so much. My dad's pancreatic cancer. The highs and lows. The fear. The appointments and long drives to Milwaukee. The surgery that left him without a pancreas and now living with brittle diabetes. The reality of watching someone you love suffer and knowing there is only so much you can do to help.

And now this.

Another person I love in pain. Another thing I cannot fix with my own two hands. Another reminder that life can turn upside down in a single moment.

Just like that.

I am profoundly grateful my son is alive. There was no head injury. His injury is fixable. We have so much to be thankful for, and I will never lose sight of that.

But gratitude and grief can exist in the same heart.

We can thank God for what He has spared us from and still grieve what we have lost.

We can know that things could have been so much worse and still hurt terribly over what happened.

And tonight, I hurt.

But here's the part I can't stop thinking about.

As he sat in that ER room tonight, waiting and hoping the morphine would finally ease his pain, he stared off for a moment and quoted Romans 8:18 "I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us." Romans 8:18. I don't know if he could fully "feel" the weight of those words in that moment. Maybe the pain was too great. Maybe the disappointment was too fresh. Maybe he was simply trying to get through one minute at a time.

But those words were on his heart.

He said them.

He KNOWS they are true, even when he cannot yet see how this story will unfold. Even when his circumstances don't make sense. Even when his feelings haven't caught up to what his faith knows.

And isn't that what faith is?

Not pretending we aren't hurting. Not putting on a smile and insisting that everything is fine. Not trying to convince ourselves that disappointment doesn't matter.

Faith is holding on to what God says is true when our feelings cannot yet find their footing.

Faith is confessing the promises of God when the tears are still falling.

Faith is knowing that our suffering is real, but it is not the end of our story. There is no greater comfort to a mother's heart than hearing her child speak the Word of God in a moment of suffering. Not because it makes the pain disappear, but because it reminds me that the most important thing is still there.

The faith God has given him.

The truth he knows.

The Savior who holds him, even here. And that brings me to something I think about more and more as I get older.

This life, with all its accomplishments, championships, victories, dreams, and disappointments, is temporary. If this life is all there is, if the end result is eternity apart from Christ, then none of it ultimately matters. Not the winning streak. Not the playoffs. Not the state championship. Not the accolades, the abilities, the opportunities, or the things we spend so much time working toward. My greatest prayer for my children, the prayer that matters more than any other, is that they will spend eternity in Heaven with Jesus.

That is the finish line that matters.

That is the victory I pray for.

That is the hope that holds me together when everything else feels like it is falling apart.

And I believe with all my heart that our God does not waste our suffering. He uses even the painful things of this broken world to refine our faith, draw us closer to Himself, and remind us where our true home is.

Think about Jonah for a moment.

When the plant that had been giving Jonah relief from the intense heat and rays withered, God provided a worm to destroy it.

God had provided the plant, and God provided the worm.

The same God who provides relief is not absent when that relief is taken away. He remains sovereign, even when His ways are difficult to understand.

That doesn't mean every painful thing is a punishment. The worm wasn't punishment for Jonah, it was provision. It doesn't mean we can always explain why something happens. And it certainly doesn't mean we won't grieve.I t means we can trust the God who sees the whole picture when we can see only this one heartbreaking piece of it.

It means we can trust that He is at work even when we don't understand His work.

And it means that the pain we experience here is not the final word. Please don't misunderstand me. I am not sitting here pretending this doesn't sting. It does. My eyes hurt, are puffy and I have the wonderful headache that comes after a long, hard cry.

There will be days this hurts more than others. There will be a few more Friday nights when we wish he were on that field. There will be moments when he watches his teammates play and feels the weight of what he has lost. There may be days when the question comes: "Why, Lord? Why now? Why him?

And I won't tell him he shouldn't feel those things. We will rejoice and remind him of those 8 amazing games he got to be part of earning that W with his fellow teammates, while still grieving at not being able to cross the finish line with them in helmet and pads. Our Savior knows our sorrows. He knows our disappointments. He knows what it is to weep. He knows what it is to suffer. He went to the cross for sinners who feel deeply, doubt, grieve, question, and struggle. He died for all of it. He bore our sin, our shame, and the judgment we could never bear ourselves. And because Jesus died and rose again, suffering and death will not have the last word for those who belong to Him.

One day, there will be no broken bones. No cancer. No surgeries. No hospital rooms. No agonizing disappointments. No more watching people we love suffer. No more wondering why God allowed something we cannot understand.

One day, we will be fully and eternally home with Him.

And nothing..not a lost season, not a shattered dream, not a devastating diagnosis, not even death itself, can take that promise away from us in Christ.

So tonight, I will let myself cry.

I will hurt for my boy. I will grieve the season he worked so hard to finish. I will pray for his surgery tomorrow, for relief from his pain, for healing, and for his heart as he navigates the disappointment ahead.

I will thank God that he is here, breathing, sleeping, and still smiling through the hard things.

And I will remember those words he spoke in the ER.

"Our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us."

Just like that, things can change.

But thank God, just like that, our circumstances can change without our Savior changing. The same Jesus who held us yesterday holds us tonight. The same Jesus who will carry us through tomorrow has already secured our eternity.

And when everything else feels uncertain, that is enough.

Not because the hurt isn't real.

But because ,He is.