Apraxia. It’s been our daily dose of speech therapy fun for almost 3 years. Mr. T received his official diagnosis 11 days before Mr. F made his grand appearance. It was hard then, but there was so much else going on that the distractions got us through a lot of the grief stages without their immensity. Any special needs diagnosis causes grief. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

This time, though, there’s no new baby. No sleep deprivation to lessen the intensity. And while I know there are beautiful lessons in parenting a child with Apraxia, this time it’s overwhelming. This time it feels like a sucker punch. This time I know what’s ahead. I know the hours, the tears, the frustration of not understanding. And I kept trying to fight it all back. For over a month I fought so hard. Especially the anger. The “Why, God?” moments. But it didn’t work.

Here I am, knowing how silly it is to shake my fist at God and yell that “it’s not fair”. But I catch myself doing it anyway. I forgot how deep the hurt goes. I forgot how much the comments about “talking late” sting. Or maybe I had just grown tougher skin and this raw wounding of a second diagnosis broke it all open again.

This week before we celebrate the Resurrection, we forget sometimes that Tenebrae  comes first. The dark, the hard, the trials. The things that make our hearts yearn to pick up our daily crosses to be close to our Savior because we cannot carry these burdens without His lightening of our loads.

I know God works all things for the good of those who love Him, but I’m feeling a bit like the father crying out to Jesus to heal his son, “I believe. Help my unbelief!”.

Today, I am just sharing my heart with you. I want you to know that we are in this walk together. Apraxia will not win. Our children are incredible, and so are we. And it’s OK to hurt, to grieve, to be angry, and to someday accept, all the while fighting for each up-hill step of progress.