Dear Son, 

Tomorrow will be 8 years since you have been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It doesn’t seem possible, really, that it’s been almost a decade since that day. But time has an amazing way of moving on. I guess it’s God’s grace to us – that we keep having days and nights and seasons and years after a nightmare. 

I thought that by now the memories would fade a little, but they haven’t. I still remember every single detail. I remember the way you looked at me in the doctor’s office when you asked me what was wrong with you. I remember those blue eyes of yours opening up wide when I told you that we were going to have to take you to the hospital.

I remember driving in pounding rain and thinking that the sky’s tears were no match for my sobs. 

I remember the numbness I felt in the hospital room. I remember hoping that other people were praying for us because I had no words in my heart. I remember curling up around you in the hospital bed, my arms wrapped around you and my shoulders folded in over you, like I could somehow protect you from what was to come with my body.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

I remember the shots. All the shots. I remember you asking how long you would have to have needles jabbed in your arms, belly, and legs and I didn’t know how to tell a 5 year old that it would be for the rest of his life. I remember you thinking you only would have diabetes for a short time, then you would be well and have no more needles poking you.

I remember the day you realized this would never end. 

I guess those memories will never shrink for me – they will always trigger fear and helplessness and anger. And maybe I’ve subconsciously made a choice, all these years later, to try to not let those memories take hold of me and control me. I can’t give them power anymore. 

So now before I think of the tears and the pain and the grief, I remember something else. When I think of your diagnosis day, I remember the faces. I see our doctor’s face, sad but kind as he told me we would be ok. I think of nurses’ faces in the emergency room, smiling at you and telling you how cute you were. I think of a doctor who we had never met before staying late and waiting for us at the hospital, her face stern but caring as she walked in the room. I remember the emergency room doctor’s face, assuring us that he would do everything possible for you to begin this journey in a positive way. That he would not scare you or hold you down or traumatize you with needles. 

Do you remember those faces too? I hope you do. Because those faces were the faces of God that day. And I don’t want you to ever forget that. I want you to remember that when the light was taken out of our lives, the faces gave it back to us. 

During that awful time, I thought God had abandoned us. I thought He was far away and that I would never see His face again. 

Son, I was so very wrong about that.

God was there, shining His face on me as He does to all of us. That day His face was brown and pale and old and young and dark-eyed and blue-eyed. Of course I didn’t know if was His face then, but now I can see it so clearly.

I’m sure you know by now, but there will probably be other bad days in your life as you grow. It won’t always be happiness and good times. But when those days come, I want you to do one thing – Look at the faces that are helping you and showing you kindness and surrounding you with love. Look hard at those faces to make sure you remember. And if you stare long enough, I bet you will see the face of God.

Love, 

Mama