Today I squeezed my girl’s feet (feet that are now larger than my own) and kept my eyes fixed on her eyes in the mirror as they eased her into the MRI machine. I gave her thumbs up signs and demonstrated calm breathing as she started to panic, and forced myself to keep smiling for her as tears ran down her cheeks.

Her thirteenth MRI today, yet she always forgets what it’s like and has that moment of panic.

For me, there’s a strange familiarity to it all now… the feel of the hospital gowns, the smell of the hand soap, the sounds of the machines, the clicks of the doors… knowing which windows give the best views as we maneuver through the corridors from one clinic to another, and which bathrooms will be the least crowded along the way.

We met with our neurosurgeon after the scans, and as we talked, I caught myself being amazed that this is the same man we’ve spoken with every year for the past ten years- the same man whose hands were used by God to save her life when she was just days old. As he sat there in his Mickey Mouse tie cutting up with her and making jokes, it was hard to believe he was the one making life or death decisions with her brain in his hands all those years ago… but I’m so thankful he was.

Her scans were once again stable. No growth in the brain cyst, no increase in ventricle size or fluid… good news, but also no decrease in any of it, either, which is what my heart longs for. But stable is good, and gives much to be thankful for.

However, stable wasn’t what I had my hope set on today, and I caught myself staring at this image of Harper’s brain on the way home, trying not to be disappointed that everything has remained the same and not gotten smaller. The doctor has never indicated that we should see a decrease, but I pray for it anyway, wanting to see that physical miracle… and today wasn’t the day.

Or so it seemed to me in that moment.

As I was staring at that massive brain cyst today, the Lord reminded me that I wasn’t staring at an unanswered prayer. I was looking at a miracle.

That large white mass taking up the back corner of Harper’s brain? The white enlarged ventricles due to extra fluid and another cyst in the center of her brain? The not-so-straight midline? All evidence of a miracle. A testimony of His goodness. Because even with all of that, my child walks. She talks. She sees and she hears. She reads and writes. She plays and imagines. She sings and dances. She loves. She lives.

That is a miracle.

We’ve been in a season of transition and figuring out with Harper. There are challenges and unknowns, and doctors tell us things like it’s time to think about what her future realistically looks like as she’s getting older, that our goals may need to be different, that there are things that just might not happen… and that’s hard. It hurts.

But sometimes in the middle of the hard and the hurt, God reminds you that He’s still working. There are miracles all around if we just take the time to see them. And there are miracles ahead if we just keep believing.

I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! (Psalm 27:13-14)