Living the Chase Scene: Notes on Faith for Parenting Through Crisis.

Dear Frazzled Parent,

I know you didn't ask for this journey. I know your hands tremble when you sign consent forms. I know your breath catches in your throat when the doctor enters the room. I see the weight crushing your chest when you try to sleep at night, your mind racing with questions that have no answers. Society taught you that becoming a parent meant receiving every instinct needed to protect your child. But sometimes, despite all your love and vigilance, the unthinkable happens anyway. You want to rely on faith, but you're living with many questions.

Questions We All Ask

Like you, I've found myself asking, "Why does my compassionate, innocent child have to be the one fighting this battle?" The oncology floor houses the most beautiful, lively children. I love them all, and yet I wonder—why any of them?

These questions aren't new. They echo across centuries. The Book of Job wrestles with undeserved suffering. The Psalms are filled with laments asking, "How long, O Lord?" The Buddha's first noble truth acknowledged that suffering is universal. And Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor who lost his own children, wrote that "the art of living is more like wrestling than dancing."

Your questions don't reflect a lack of faith—they are part of a sacred tradition of honest dialogue with the divine.

Finding Strength, You Didn't Know You Had

It's like those chase scenes from movies—you find a faster gear repeatedly, and then, when you think you're out of gears, you somehow find that turbo boost you didn't know you had. You look back and think, "Wow, we just handled that."

Do we find this strength within ourselves, or does God provide it? Or is it both? Does God expect you to rise to the occasion and then give the turbo boost when needed? Is that how our roles break down?

The ancient Stoics understood this tension thousands of years ago. As Epictetus wrote: "Some things are in our power, while others are not." Our power lies not in controlling outcomes but in how we respond to what happens. This wisdom echoes across traditions—from the Serenity Prayer to the Buddhist concept of non-attachment to the Catholic understanding of surrender to Divine Providence.

St. Teresa of Ávila once wrote: "God alone is enough." Not because other things don't matter, but because when everything else is stripped away, we discover resources within ourselves that were always there, planted by something greater than ourselves.

Where Is God?

"Where is God?" my daughter asked me on our way to the clinic.

The question caught me off guard, this unprompted wondering from a child facing the unthinkable. My answer was simple: "God is everywhere."

She questioned, "Everywhere?" with a voice inflection that melts me every time.

"Do you feel held and hugged by God right now?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, her voice trailing off.

In these moments, faith becomes less about theological certainty and more about presence, feeling held when the future is uncertain. St. John of the Cross wrote of "the dark night of the soul," those seasons when God feels simultaneously present and absent. We walk by faith, not by sight, especially when the path leads through valleys we never wanted to enter.

In Catholic tradition, we speak of God's presence in suffering, not removing it, but entering it with us. Buddhist wisdom teaches us to stay present even in pain. The Stoics believed in accepting what we cannot change while acting virtuously within our sphere of influence.

Whatever your faith tradition, know that the question "Where is God in this?" has been asked by the holiest and wisest souls throughout history. Your questioning is not a failure—it's a profound prayer.

When Your Brain Attacks You

As treatment gets harder, my brain sneaks and attacks me more often.

• Are we at the right hospital?

• What did I miss?

• Should I do more research?

• Can I handle knowing more?

  
  

As mentioned before, the 16th-century mystic St. John of the Cross called this "the dark night of the soul," when our familiar spiritual frameworks seem inadequate. He understood this powerlessness: "To come to what you know not, you must go by a way where you know not." At times, the greatest act of faith is to continue, one step at a time, when the path ahead is hidden in fog.

Zen Buddhism speaks of "beginner's mind"—acknowledging that sometimes we must admit we don't know.

When these thoughts arise, I try to simplify my assignment. One breath. One moment. One small act of love.

What You Can Do

Right now, your assignment is simple, though not easy:

1. Allow yourself to feel everything. The ancient practice of lamentation provides us with a space to be honest about our pain.

2. Find your minute-by-minute prayer. Mine became: "I am okay in this moment. She is okay in this moment. We are okay in this moment. God, please give me strength."

3. Notice small moments of grace. A nurse's kindness. Your child's resilience. The way sunlight falls across a hospital bed. What Buddhists call "mindfulness" and Christians call "practicing the presence of God."

4. Remember you're not alone. Across time and space, parents have walked this road. As the Communion of Saints reminds us, we are surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses."

5. Accept help. As the Jewish tradition teaches, allowing others to help is not a sign of weakness—it is a blessing that enables them to perform mitzvot (good deeds).

   
   

The Wisdom of Surrender

We would do anything to prevent our children's pain. We've never tried so hard in our entire lives to protect them. And yet, we lack control over all of it.

There is profound wisdom in recognizing this truth. The Serenity Prayer, treasured across faith traditions, reminds us to accept what we cannot change, find courage to change what we can, and wisdom to know the difference.

We do our best to meet every challenge as it arises, and we pray. This isn't resignation, it's the profound spiritual practice of surrender that saints and sages have taught for millennia.

You Are Not Alone

Whatever you're feeling right now—rage, grief, determination, exhaustion, hope, despair—you are joined by parents throughout time who have felt the same. Your love for your child connects you to the very heart of what it means to be human.

And in that love—fierce, protective, and unending—you may catch a glimpse of the love that has sustained the universe since the beginning of time.

A Closing Blessing

May you find unexpected moments of joy amidst the pain.

May you discover that you are stronger than you ever imagined.

May you know that it's okay to not be okay.

May you remember that your worth is not tied to your ability to fix this.

May you find that in loving through crisis, you are participating in something holy.

May your tears water the seeds of compassion this world desperately needs.

May you trust that this season—however long it lasts—will not be forever.

And may you feel held by God, especially in moments when you have no more gears left to find.

With you on the journey,

A Fellow Frazzled Parent

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