Dear Friends,

We are still here. We have given approximately 3,650 shots to our boy. We have pricked his little fingers over 4,000 times. We have travelled to see an endocrinologist 12 times. We have survived a stomach bug, strep throat, and bronchitis. We have seen highs reach almost 400 and lows reach almost 40. We have been to the pharmacy for supplies and medication 83 times. We have lost 730 hours of sleep. And this is only year two.

Did I imagine all this when Hugh was first diagnosed two years ago? Of course not. I had no idea what would be required of him and us to simply keep him alive. Would I have wanted someone to tell me? Probably not.

Recently our little family took a vacation to the mountains. A chance to rest. A chance to be together. A chance to breathe. We wanted to hike to the highest point. We wanted to SEE what was before us and below us. We wanted to be in AWE.

But we couldn’t see. The fog was so dense that there was no view.

We longed to catch a glimpse of the vastness below us and the beauty that we knew was surely there, if only the fog would lift and the sun would shine.

They told us that the view would be amazing, but to be careful – it was also a little dangerous. They told us to hold our childrens’ hands tightly and to not get too close to the edge.

But a funny thing happens when you can’t see the vastness – it’s not scary at all. You walk right up to the edge and your heart is not even pounding. You’re not scared because you can’t see enough to be scared.

You are not scared, but you are not in AWE either. You miss the beauty of it all.

You are forced to take a look at what you can see – the little things. The tiny icicles. The way the wind blows the ice in one direction. The fragile branch that can bear so much weight.

Could I have told you the beauty of diabetes without knowing the fear? Would I have noticed the beauty in the little things if I could have seen the big picture?

Probably not.

Because there is fear in diabetes, but there is also beauty beyond words. There is a joy of knowing my son was dying, and is now alive. There is a love of life that only comes when you have been close to death and realize that each and every day is a chance to stand on a mountain top.

There is dancing.

And there is loving.

And there is God’s grace, washing over us again and again.

We don’t know what diabetes holds for us next. I’m sure there will be battles we have yet to face. But we know there is beauty in it.

When we left the mountains, Scott and I made a promise to our kids. We would come back to this place. We would hike again to the highest point. We want to be a little scared of what we see before us, but we also want to be in awe.

With Love,

Sally