20 Minutes

The longest twenty-minutes are the twenty-minutes that your child is in surgery.

You watch the clock melt into the wall as seconds become hours.  Tick, tock, tick, tock.  The clock gets louder and louder - mocking you for staring at it.

Your throbbing heart has moved into your throat making it more difficult to swallow your concern.  You look back at the clock.  That stupid, dumb clock.  Only three-minutes have passed?

You watch the door like a trained royal guard waiting for someone to enter the room.  Someone who will tell you that the procedure went well and your child will be just fine.

Your mind replays all the statistics that dump water onto the flame of your fear.  This is a simple procedure.  He's going to be okay!  And then time begins to move at a pace of sixty-seconds per minute once again.

But then doubt, just like a vulture sitting on your left shoulder, whispers worry back into your head.  And time creeps again just like before.

You are reminded that you are not invincible.  You know that nothing will make this more apparent than if something happens to your child today.  And you cannot imagine a world without him in it.  Even in your fragile state, your mind won't allow you to consider this as a possible outcome.

And you PRAY.  You pray because God is the only one who loves your child as much as you do.  And you know that He is in that operating room right now - guiding the surgeon's hands and protecting your baby.

And then you wait.  And you wait.  And you wait some more.

Twenty-minutes feels like hours when you're sitting in that recovery room.

The shortest twenty-minutes are the twenty-minutes after your child has had surgery.

The surgeon walks in and she's smiling.  Her smile punches your fear right in the gut, and it quietly exits the room as if it were never there in the first place.  Her happy disposition silently says that everything is okay, but it still feels good to hear the words.  The procedure went well and your child will be just fine.

They wheel your sleeping son into the recovery room.  You see his peaceful face and your eyes overflow with oceans of relief.  You watch him open his heavy eyes and look into yours, and you wish that it was you in that bed instead.  Twenty-minutes flies by as you stroke his hair just to feel closer to him.

The shortest twenty-minutes are the car ride home when your child is watching Finding Nemo in the backseat.  Or the time that you spend rubbing his back to help him get comfortable.  Or the time that you spend spoon-feeding him bites of jello. Or the time that you spend watching Peppa Pig just one more time.  Or the time that you spend reading his favorite book over and over before turning out the light.  Because now, twenty-minutes feels like no time at all.

Last week, some of these tasks might have felt inconvenient.  But today, you don't consider them a responsibility.  Today, you consider them a privilege.

The shortest twenty-minutes are the twenty-minutes when you're standing beside his bed that night and watching him sleep.  You praise God for keeping him safe today.  And you thank God for the honor of being this child's mother.

..............................

Twenty-minutes can teach you a lot.

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