I chronically forget God. I forget, again and again, that God has not set me on this planet expecting me to fend for myself. David, the man after God’s own heart, cried out to God for help, direction, and assurance again and again. Shouldn’t I do the same?
My oldest daughter was three when she attended her first Sunday school class. The teacher sat the children on little carpet mats, and together they learned one verse. What verse did they learn? John 3:16? Romans 8:28? Ephesians 4:32? Surprisingly, the teacher chose none of these. Instead, she taught the pre-schoolers the words of David in Psalm 30:10. Each Sunday, the children repeated King David’s cry: “Oh Lord, be my help!”
“Oh Lord, be my help!” Is there any better verse for a child to learn? Is there any better verse for a parent to re-learn? In the myriad of decisions we face each day, from the ordinary to the extraordinary, where do we, as parents, go for help? To whom do we cry? Unlike King David, we often walk through our troubles armed with Google, AI, or our cell phones and mountains of parenting books and resources. But perhaps all that fabulous information and connection just isn’t where we need to be. Perhaps, we parents need first to cry out with those preschoolers and King David, “Oh Lord, be my help!”
Extraordinary Trouble
Our third child, Steele, was ten years old when the Lord brought that verse back to the forefront of my mind. As a child with a rare craniofacial syndrome, Steele had already been through two surgeries to have his skull removed and expanded, making room for his growing brain. At ten years old, Steele was again at a crossroads where the pressure on his brain could increase to problematic levels if the prior skull expansion wasn’t sufficient.
During this season, my active duty military husband, Mike, deployed to Korea for a year. Shortly after his departure, Steele began experiencing headaches. We saw neurosurgery, neurology, craniofacial, ophthalmology and the pediatrician multiple times over. MRIs and other tests were normal. My detailed spreadsheets of symptoms remained unhelpful, as were the vitamins, medicines and various aids suggested by our team of medical professionals.
Steele complained daily of headaches and grew light-sensitive. He spent hours alone in his room in the semi-dark, listening to audiobooks and playing Legos. I had an uneasy feeling that our medical team was starting to think that I might be a bit loopy, as Steele continued to look and act completely normal during medical check-ups though he was certainly not well at home. Perhaps I was loopy? Mike was gone, I was alone with four young children, and I had no idea what to do. Many nights I lay awake thinking, strategizing, worrying…tomorrow I’ll talk to the neurosurgery nurse…I’ll email our pediatrician…I’ll ask for another scan…
Ordinary Grace
And then, one of those long nights alone in my room, miserable, trying to discern how to help my son, a still voice pierced the fog. Why don’t you ask Me for help? Wide awake now, I realized that in all my stewing, strategizing, googling, worrying, and asking others for prayer, I had not actually spoken those stunning words that my daughter memorized years before: “O Lord, be my help.” In the extraordinary trouble I faced, I had forgotten one of the most beautiful and ever-present ordinary means of grace: the prayer of a parent asking God for help.
In the dead of night, I asked my God for his help. With my heart now calm, I saw the difficult path forward. It was unpleasant, but I was filled with peace.
All other options exhausted, the only way to determine if Steele’s symptoms were related to elevated brain pressures was surgical: drill a hole in his skull and drop what neurosurgeons affectionately call “the Bolt” into a ventricle of his brain for 24 hours. Steele would remain in ICU, his brain and skull attached to a line to read the brain pressures while he was awake and functioning. Yes, to be clear, this means that a ten year old, active boy must sit in an ICU bed with a bolt dropped in his brain, with his brain and skull attached to a line and monitor.
Does anyone out there think that this sounds like a great idea? I certainly didn’t, but the Lord was my help. Mike remained in Korea, so I sent Steele off to the OR by myself, dressed in my hospital bunny suit. A surgical veteran with around a dozen surgeries under his belt, Steele was cheerful and the life of the party, cracking his corny jokes with the surgical team. Once again, I thought I might be going crazy. Oh Lord, be my help.
Answers in the ICU
When the placement of the Bolt was complete, Steele and I spent the next 24 hours together in the ICU. Every so often we would open a present (Legos) and build it to make the time pass. While Steele was upright building his Legos, his brain pressures were…totally normal. I began to feel embarrassed. Ashamed. Confused. Was I crazy? Did I just insist on having a bolt screwed in my child’s brain for no reason? Teams of neurosurgical staff streamed in, commenting on the normal pressures. I felt worse and worse.
Then, in stalked our faithful neurosurgeon who barked out his request: Lay Steele flat in the bed. Now. Strange, but we complied, and our no-nonsense surgeon marched back out of the room. I continued to wallow in misery, and clearly Steele’s entertainment in this tenuous situation became much more difficult. It goes without saying that it is quite hard to build Legos while lying flat in a hospital bed. Lord, what are You doing? Oh Lord, please show us what is wrong. Be our help.
Brain pressure numbers began to inch up, higher and higher. Eight. Ten. Twelve. (Fifteen is a high normal.) Fifteen. Eighteen. They paged the neurosurgeon. Twenty. Twenty-three…Twenty-five. Teams of neurosurgical staff circled back in, marveling at the child who seemed totally fine, but who was actually experiencing high brain pressures every time he lay flat. That nameless something that had been eluding teams of elite medical professionals finally had been identified. Steele needed a third skull expansion.
Remember
And so, though it took this mama seeing her boy through a brain surgery, I learned a valuable lesson, that very same lesson taught to my toddler sitting on her carpet mat in Sunday School. I must remember to ask God for help. God delights in giving his children good gifts, and he promises to provide wisdom to those who ask (Matt. 7:11, James 1:5). As Paul proclaims in Romans 8:32, God did not even spare his own Son in order to save us, and he adopts us as his own.
From disagreements with tweens about appropriate attire to training toddlers to control their tempers to navigating life with a rebellious young adult, David shows us that God dwells with us in the ordinary moments of life as well as in the extraordinary. This God made the stars but calls us each by name—this is the God we cry to for help. God created us. Through him, our families were created. Our plea doesn’t have to be fancy or begin with a preamble or follow a specific formula. Whatever our challenges are as a parent, large or small, we can pray with King David or with the smallest preschooler: “Oh Lord, be my help.”
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