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The antiseptic chill hovered in the air like an evil threat.
My body shivered in fear. The icy truth immobilized me each time I witnessed my little boy’s agony. I twisted my hands feeling hopeless and angry as I squirmed and paced the room. The cancerous disease hungered to seize my son’s last breath.
Waves of unrelenting anxiety sapped my strength. Each breath I took equaled one less there would be for my son. The end was near. In my despair, I tried to bargain with God—unwilling to let my boy go.
“You are not taking my son!” I stammered through uncontrollable sobs.
“I’m not willing or able to let him go — Take me…”
In mid-sentence, I shielded my face in shame for my tone of voice with God.
I sat frozen, as if waiting for punishment.
My son’s bedside monitor taunted me like a demon waiting to snatch its prey. With cruel insensitivity, the blips and bleeps kept me alert to his deterioration while the truth on the screen announced my son’s destiny. With burning eyes and a heavy heart, I turned to my heavenly Father and begged.
Through his labored gasps and half-closed eyes, my little one searched for my hand. As his father, he waited for me to restore him—just as I always did when he was sick.
The excruciating reality was that I would have to disappoint him this time—it tore at my soul. I could not diminish his pain or make him better. That fact made my emotions spiral out of control and they crashed in a heap of despair. Painful shards severed my last thread of hope and I expelled a muffled wail through my shaking hands as they covered my mouth.
As I lay waiting for death’s cold grip to steal my son, he slipped farther from me. Peace came only from the image of his loving Father at heaven’s gate. Despite my desire to keep him alive, it meant nothing — I could do nothing. He was in God’s hands and it was time for me to willingly surrender him to the only One capable of restoration. Ashamed of my sin, I finally recognized God’s strength above my own.
It tortured me to watch those last moments, but his pain was mine to share and I would endure it with him. As an emotional battle raged within, nothing equaled the horror of witnessing my child’s agony. I could take it no more. Suddenly, through God’s grace, he blessed me with a willingness to let him go. My battle within was over.
“Daddy, I www…ant it to stop. Pleeeea…se make it stop.”
Drenched in pain-induced sweat, I helplessly took his limp hand in mine; my eyes bled tears of deep suffering. Although God was always in control, I finally released the desperate hold I had on my son. I looked at him with unconditional love as I let him go. I took his head and cradled it in my arms; my body was wracked with indescribable pain as my own head lay close to his precious face, listening to his last breath.
In my mourning, I allowed my own Father to quell my pain. Through surrender, I was confronted with the truth of my weakness and humanity. I suddenly realized I could do nothing without Him.
My Father knows the pain and distress of my heart. He witnessed the agony of His own beloved son when He sent Jesus to experience the unthinkable long ago.
Jesus’ own labored gasps and half-closed eyes searched for His father too; only His hands were not free to search for Him. They remained helplessly affixed to His cross by death’s ruthless grasp.
As I lay close to my son’s precious face listening to his last breath, death’s cold grip was finally gone. The breath of new life was suddenly my son’s forever.
Finally at peace, I was never more willing to let him go. He then lay cradled in his heavenly Father’s arms.
“Thy Will Be Done.”
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