weekly heart notes: a holy operation

This week felt heavy in a way that’s hard to put into words.

We’ve had more appointments. More scans. More conversations that somehow still leave us…waiting. Waiting for doctors to talk to each other. Waiting for a plan. Waiting for clarity that feels like it should already exist.

And we’ve found ourselves in a place I never wanted to be, questioning the very team that’s supposed to be helping care for Romi. There’s been a lack of communication. A sense of being overlooked.

Moments where it feels like if we don’t push, advocate, and insist, things just…don’t happen.

And that’s a hard place to stand as a parent.

Because on one hand, I am so grateful we know Romi. We really know her. We know when something isn’t right. We know how to keep her safe. But on the other hand… we shouldn’t have to fight this hard just to be heard.

So now we’re facing the possibility of transferring her care to a different hospital. And even though we have someone there we deeply trust, it still comes with that quiet question sitting in my chest: Are we doing the right thing?

This Sunday felt like a turning point in a way I didn’t expect.

Even before worship started, I felt this quiet nudge so specific it stopped me. It was the holy spirit, very plainly but urgent.

Ask for prayer.

So I did.

I asked our pastor to pray for Romi. I have done this before, but this time felt very specific and an intentional call from Jesus. What I didn’t know was that the entire message that morning would be about believing God for physical healing.

And I’ll be honest, that’s something I’ve wrestled with.

Because I do believe.

I have begged God for healing.

I will always ask for it.

But I’ve also learned how to live here, in the middle of the unknown, in the ongoing, in the not yet.

And sometimes holding both, deep faith and present reality, feels like a tension my heart doesn’t know how to resolve.

At the end of the service, our family was invited to kneel at the cross. And then something happened I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Our church gathered around us. And they prayed for Romi. Which has happened before, but this felt different.

Not quietly. Not casually. But with intention. With faith. With love you could feel. It was overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

Afterwards, I asked Romi,

“Did God speak to you?”

And she said,

“Jesus told me I was His sweetheart and He would always lay with me.”

I can’t even write that without tearing up, because that’s her language. Romi always asks us to lay with her. That’s where she feels safe. That’s where her body settles. And of course that’s how Jesus would meet her. Right there. In the place she understands love the most.

Later, she told us her tummy was hurting during the prayer. When we got home, I asked her about it again.

“Romi, what happened when your tummy was hurting?”

And she said,

“Jesus took me apart, operated on me, and put me back together.”

I will believe Jesus was healing her in that moment. And I won’t forget it. Even as we prepare for the unknown, a potential surgery.. I will believe in that moment Jesus was and is doing something.

I don’t have a neat ending for this week.

We are still waiting. Still discerning next steps. Still carrying questions about her care and what comes next. But I keep coming back to this:

Jesus meets us exactly where we are.

Not where we wish we were.

Not where we hope to be.

But right here, in the middle of the unknown.

And somehow, even here… Romi feels safe enough to say He’s laying with her. So maybe that’s what I’m holding onto this week.

Not certainty.

Not answers.

Just the quiet, steady belief that we are not alone in this.