The Peace I Didn’t Expect

If you’ve been following our journey for a while, you know that Peanut has faced her share of medical challenges. She’s braver than anyone I know, but there was one day that tested my faith in a way I’ll never forget.

It was the middle of COVID, and the world felt heavy. But that day, the heaviness wasn’t from the news or restrictions; it was from sitting in a cold hospital room, holding little Peanut, as she prepared for heart surgery.

At five years old, she was having her ASD (Atrial Septal Defect) repaired. A small hole in her heart was letting extra blood flow into the right side, forcing it to work harder than the left. The doctors said it was “simple.” They wouldn’t have to open her chest, just guide a catheter through a vein to place a small device to close the hole. A few hours, and we’d be done.

But it’s never easy to pass your baby off to a surgeon.

Because of COVID rules, I was the only one allowed back there. Juan wasn’t there to hold my hand, to lean on, to cry with. Just me, Peanut, and the steady hum of hospital machines.

Because everything was running behind, she soon fell asleep on my chest while we waited. I soaked in this sweet moment because it rarely occurred. I remember pressing my cheek into her hair, breathing in her sweet scent, and praying. Not the kind of polished, tidy prayer you say when life feels manageable, but the messy, tear-soaked words that spill out when your heart is breaking.

God, please, please keep her safe. Please let me take her home.

And then, in the middle of all the fear, something shifted.

The panic loosened its grip on my chest. My breathing slowed. I felt a warm wash over me and a whisper in my soul.

I gave her to you because I trust you. I love her even more than you do, trust in me.

I can’t fully explain it. It was a peace that overcame my entire soul. It wasn’t giving up. It felt like I was truly loved. A deeper love than I’d ever felt before, a peace that made no sense while I held her tight.

That peace stayed with me when they wheeled her away. It stayed in the waiting room. It stayed as the hours passed, and when they passed her back to me.

Today, I still pray for her safety every day. But I no longer pray with clenched fists. I pray with open hands, trusting that the One who gave her to me loves her even more than I do.

I’ll never forget that day. Not because of the fear, but because God met me there in that cold hospital room and reminded me:

His peace doesn’t come from the promise of a certain outcome. It comes from trusting His presence in our darkest moments.