Note: This week we continue with shared blogs by Meg Apperson as she details the journey of walking with disability in her life and finding comfort. For more information, check out Meg’s blog at http://www.fourfinelives.com.

I wrote a line in my book that goes something like this—“Avery is too young to remember, but for the rest of my life I will never be able to forget.” 

As I was packing my bags today, a menacing thought passed through my mind. “If she lives, she’ll remember this one.” 

The idea that Avery was a baby for so much of her suffering and will have no lasting memory of the trauma she endured has always comforted me. I remember holding her in my arms the day after the surgeon replaced the shunt that had almost killed her, so grateful that she would never know how badly she had hurt. She would never remember the pain. 

This time will be different. I know that this will be one of those things—a landmark in her childhood—that stays with her. She was two-years-old the last time a neurosurgeon pressed his scalpel to her skin. She couldn’t speak then. I’m deeply dreading hearing her verbalize her pain tomorrow. There’s no way to protect yourself from the horror of hearing your child beg for relief. Those sentences sear themselves into the fabric of the soul. There’s nothing like hurting for someone you can’t help. Helplessness at its worst. I would trade places with her in an instant if I could.

As quickly as the thought came into my head, my heart cried out, “Oh, God, how will I ever be able to comfort her through this?” The Lord immediately spoke to me heart, “You’re not her Comforter. I am.” 

Sweet peace. He is Avery’s comforter. I don’t need to feel helpless. I must simply remember that I’m not her Help—He is. 

I let the truth soak into my thoughts of Avery, but the Holy Spirit trespassed wildly into other places of my heart that harbored heavy helplessness. 

A few months ago, I was getting ready for bed and scrolling through Instagram. The face of a young refugee boy with a craniofacial syndrome popped up and stopped me in my tracks. I began crying and startled Cody, who was sitting next to me. 

“What on earth? Are you okay?” 

I showed him the photo of the boy and he knew. We know how Avery, who was born into a family who can easily provide for her and dearly loves, suffers. The idea of a young child, orphaned and alone, without access to medical care, a cultural scourge because of his disability, living half a world away broke my heart. 

“I want every single one of them,” I blubbered through my tears. “Every single child.” 

But even that little boy is not without help, I remembered today. There is a Comforter who isn’t limited by geography or finances and He cares about every single one of us. 

My act of worship this week will be in serving my baby girl to the very best of my abilities. My act of worship for the rest of my life will be taking the message of true Comfort for every child to the ends of the earth. There is no trauma, no loss, no pain that can stand in the presence of that Comfort. He is our Help, tomorrow during surgery, the week of recovery to come, and forever.