Zoe

I spent most of Thursday whining about life. My laundry had piled up to overwhelming. I needed to empty the dishwasher before I could address the stack of dishes in my sink. I could have played tic-tac-toe in the dust collected on my mantle. I wandered the house not knowing where to start.

Then I got a phone call.

The news was shocking. I put my hand to my heart and whispered, “Oh no. Oh Jesus, please, no.” The information came in pieces. Brain tumor. On the brain stem. Inoperable. Might be cancer. Might not be cancer. Surgery first thing in the morning.

Our sweet friend Zoe.

We first met Zoe at the YMCA when she and my twins were in the same tumbling class. Her Mom, Kari, and I sat outside the door watching our girls turn somersaults and stagger along the balance beam. We introduced ourselves, discovered so many commonalities. An instant click. Our girls did the same thing. They were 3 years old. Since that time, Zoe has been to every birthday party. We’ve had meetings on the bike trail with scooters underfoot and sticky popsicles in hand. Play dates, pizza parties, and crafty afternoons.

And now this. I got the news and suddenly my overwhelming house seemed so trivial. Why would I bother to get emotional because I can’t stay on top of the housework?

A friend and I were on the highway early Friday morning, desperate to hold Kari’s hand. By the time we got to the hospital, Zoe was already in surgery. The doctors were inserting a shunt to help relieve the pressure on her brain. We talked with Kari about knitting and baking and how much we hate sewing. We laughed about daughters and drama. We swapped stories and exchanged websites we’re into. We drank coffee.

We asked questions about Zoe. What’s the diagnosis? Glioma. Is it malignant? Yes. What’s the prognosis? Poor. How is Zoe? Scared. How are you? I don’t even know.

We teared up but didn’t fall apart. Stay strong for Zoe. We shook our heads and longed to wake up from this nightmare.

Finally we were told we could go see Zoe. She was tucked under a pink blanket, groggy from the anesthesia but she knew who we were. I told her I would bring my girls in to see her later. She perked up and said she would like that.

Later that evening, I was back on the highway. This time with Conrad and all 3 girls with me. I warned the girls that Zoe might act funny because of her medicine. She might look different because of her shaved hair.

We walked into the room and found Zoe sitting up in bed coloring a picture of My Little Pony. Her huge blue eyes brightened as we gathered around her. “Hi Bryn! Hi Lydia! Hi Ellie! Guess how much ice cream I had today! Three bowls! Guess what else I ate! Pizza! And Pa-Sketti! Ellie, do you want to color? Bryn and Lydia, do you want to make a bracelet?” And they were off. The four girls, friends for as long as any of them can remember, completely unimpressed by incisions, ports, bandages, and scars. Friendship doesn’t see that stuff.

We let them play together before we gathered around Zoe and prayed for her. Jesus help the tumor go away. Jesus help her be brave. Jesus give her lots of ice cream.

Conrad and I held hands on the way home. We have hope for Zoe. The statistics look grim, they really do. But a mustard seed of faith? Yes. I can come up with that. And so we pray. Asking the God of the universe to move the mountain at Zoe’s feet. And that’s what I’m asking of you. Most of you don’t know Zoe and her sweet parents. But would you take a moment and pray for this girl, as if she were your girl?

Her family says thank you.