Don’t let my daughter die!

This was my constant prayer for several weeks earlier this fall.

My then 9-year-old had some sort of upper respiratory illness that would cause her to gag on phlegm, then suck in so much air that she would vomit and choke at the same time. It was terrifying, and nothing seemed to help it – except for a lot of fluids and some strong expectorants that weren’t recommended for children. The doctor ok’d them, though.

In the midst of my terror, I realized that I wasn’t really asking for my daughter’s benefit, but my own. I mean, who was really going to benefit from this prayer? If she stayed here on earth with me, I would get the joy of having her around to chat with, cook with, shop with, laugh with. I would get to watch her pirouetting around the room, or hear her singing or playing the piano. I would get to enjoy her banter with her brother or the silliness she and my husband often concoct. But what would she get out of the deal?

She would have to postpone her trip to the most perfect place ever. She would have to stay here where diseases and dangerous weather patterns and all sorts of other chaos cause her to suffer.

I am thankful that God heard my prayer, but it was comforting to know in the midst of it, that had He chosen to take her, she would have been in a better place.