People often say they think I’m strong. I’m not. God is strong for me. Most of the time, I feel like the spider in Charlotte’s Web; fading, fading, fading. Until I think I’ll be all gone.

I’ve been carrying Justin and holding him up for 332 days.

The nightmares are hard. Acute leukemia means it comes on really hard, really fast. Behind closed eyes, I see a child burning up with fever, screaming in pain, refusing to eat or talk, needing another’s blood to save his life. And that child is mine.

So I am all warrior on the outside, wounded within. An almost year of treatment has gone by quickly, yet the days drag at a maddening pace.

And there is no choice but the horrors of a treatment that tortures Justin but saves his life.

Then Justin claps sincerely for children singing Christmas songs that he should also be singing. I can’t smile and take photos and wave to him like the other parents because all he can do is lean on me.

I’m all in an inner conflict with envy and he is not phased one bit, just happy for his friends. And I think…what character! But I also think of the cost. I’m so proud and so broken-hearted, I’m afraid some strange noise might come out of me. Something like a scream.

Then I think of Jesus. And the greatest warrior mother  of all time. She labored alone on a cold floor to bring Him into the world. She fed and clothed the Son of God despite poverty. She watched, helpless, as her son was disfigured and tortured unimaginably. She must have turned her face often, but she did not leave Him.

How she must have ached over the wounds in the body she once held and bathed and kissed. How she must have despised the soldiers who mocked and tore his flesh with a sword. How she must have longed to cover his nakedness and protect Him from shame. How she must have wished it was she on the cross in His place.

This is too much for a human. A young girl with a feeding trough for a cradle. A mother standing at a cross that hung her child. It was God holding her up, giving new life to each of her senses when they couldn’t take more. God chose her for this task, fully prepared to do the heavy lifting.

Mary wasn’t perfect. Mary wasn’t superhuman. God did the heavy lifting for her.

And when I am all spent and faded, He also does the heavy lifting for a nobody like me. This is Grace.