A letter to Elijah after his surgery

Dear Elijah:

I HATE hospitals, and I hate making you go to one. I hate hearing you cry and scream in pain, I hate hearing you beg to leave, and I hate... I HATE having to make you wear this big old cast on your hand when you are dying to get it off. I hate how I feel when you say "I can't mama" and I hate how much I constantly want to cry when I hear you say it.

But I love how brave you are sitting in that hospital bed. I love the fortitude you have to try new things, difficult things, with the remaining hand you have. I loved watching you smile when you got to paint at the hospital, and how happy that made you. I loved when you saw your brother and played with him, sitting there in your hospital bed. I loved watching your face when we told you we got to go home.

I love how you don't ever give up Elijah. That's something I could never do as a child, and watching you try and try and try to pick up that spoon until you did it made me so proud of you. I love how that feels. I love how you don't let hands, or fingers, or casts, or pain get in the way of what you want. I love how strong you are.

Sometimes I hate that God allowed this to happen to you because I cannot stand watching you go through such pain at such a tiny age. But I LOVE how much God has used you, a small child to show people what we can do when we put out minds to something. And I love that God used those tiny little hands to bring so many people to Him. That is an honor Elijah. Don't you ever curse those tiny, beautiful, miracle hands because they are God's hands, hands that have allowed others to see the face of God in ways that your mommy and daddy could never have imagined.

I love you baby. My strong, courageous baby.