Trevor is scheduled for surgery tomorrow afternoon. We had the privilege of seeing him today. He's in the neuro trauma unit now which means that we were able to take the boys. We hadn't planned on taking Matthew in (Troy and I had decided to take turns) but Trevor's parents said that we should, so we all traipsed in.
We told The Rock Star, in the car, on the way there, that he needed to be on his absolute best behavior. Like, ever. We told him to save his questions for the the ride home. We asked him to be calm and quiet. When we got there we met Kenny and Julie in the cafeteria. Garrett sat so quietly that I thought maybe he was nervous or afraid to see Trevor. When I asked him he said, "No. I'm excited."
When we got up to Trevor's room, they were doing some work on his trach. Kenny plopped Garrett down next to Trev's legs. A nurse asked, "Trevor, who is this?"
In a low, gravely voice, from the direction of the trach, came the reply, "My friend, Garrett. From church." It melted my heart into a puddle. I wanted to gather Trevor into my arms and thank him for being so kind to my son even though he is eight years younger. I wanted to gather Garrett into my arms and beg the Lord to not ever make me endure a trial like their family is going through. I wanted to gather his parents into my arms and tell them what an amazing job they are doing.
Twenty-three days ago I laid prostrate on the floor of my boys' playroom. I'd grabbed that red truck that Trevor gave Garrett three and a half years ago and, with one hand on the truck and one hand stretched out on the carpet, I repeated the only prayer I could think, "God, please give him back. God, please give him back. God, please give him back. Don't take him, God, please!" Trevor was in surgery and the prognosis, as I knew it, was horrible. It probably wasn't my most reverent prayer but it may have been my most honest. No attempt at manipulation. No fluffy words. No Christianese. Pure. Simple. Let him stay. Please don't take him. Let him come back to the people who love him.
Trevor has a long road ahead of him. It begins tomorrow with major brain surgery. But I serve Jehovah Rapha--the God who heals. And I am more amazed by those healing powers every day. After seeing Trevor, I stand in awe, with arms high and heart abandoned. My God does not always choose to heal--but I think, perhaps, we should approach life as though He does. Because we never know when He is going to do something that can only be described as miraculous.
We stayed in his room for about an hour. Garrett sat by him on the bed and then, later, stood on a stool so he could hear him better. I could see the concern on my son's face for his friend. I could also see that he wasn't afraid. He was, simply, thrilled that he finally got to see him. In the end we formed a semi circle around him and Troy lifted up tomorrow's surgery in prayer. My right hand--the one that I'd spread out on the carpet that night in desperate prayer--gripped Trevor's left one. Garrett's was caught in the middle, clinging tightly to his friend.