When Hannah is sick, she's quiet. Mostly serious. Still.
These are not words that typically describe my butterfly who flits and floats as her primary mode of transportation and whose sentences carry a melody of whatever made up song she's composed in the moment.
As I hear the rapid beats of the thermometer telling me that her fever is back, I desperately wish that whatever bug she's caught had a face so I could punch it.
My fluffy white robe compensates for my bony body as I give her Momma-snuggles. I feel within me that somehow this act would be powerful enough to just heal her.
But it's not, so I pour another round of medicine and down the hatch it goes.
I stroke her hair back from her hot face, waiting for her to settle back in to sleep, feeling powerless to do anything more than wait.
In her dark room, I'm reminded how God the Father is so fiercely protective of His children. How He would destroy the thing that makes us sick. And how mostly... He is not powerless.
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