In March of 2007, my son, Austin, who was 4 at the time, broke his arm.  We had been out to lunch with Nana to celebrate my birthday.  The kids were whiney and I was glad when I could send them outside to play on the swing set. I heard some screaming and yelling, and assumed that the Emeria and Austin were arguing again. I ignored it. I know, great mom moment, huh?

I looked out the sliding glass door to see my little boy running toward the house holding his arm, one boot on and the other flung across the lawn. He ran up to the door and said, “I think I hurt my arm!”

At once, my husband felt his arm through his tiny blue sweatshirt and knew we had to get him to the ER. We loaded up the kids and I drove way too fast to get my sweet boy to the doctors.  Poor Emeria…as much as she fought with her brother that day, she would have done anything to help him.

To add insult to injury, the nurses had to cut off his favorite blue sweatshirt and favorite t-shirt in order to x-ray his arm. Black and oddly shaped, his little arm was indeed horribly broken. So badly broken, that no hospital wanted to touch him.

So off we went in an ambulance to Brigham and Women’s in Boston.  I was so thankful for the morphine drip that kept Austin sleeping through most of the evening. Being in the emergency room in Boston was scary. High stressed people in awful situations often bring out the worst in us, but it can also bring out the best.

I had been standing by Austin for hours…and a nurse noticed us. She asked how long we had been there and if I needed to use the bathroom. She said she would stay with Austin while I went and offered me a drink. Such a small act of kindness, but one that deeply blessed this stressed momma.

Finally, at 1:30 in the morning, Austin went in for surgery. All was a success and we went home the next day.  The first few days were really rough. Having suffered a compound spiral fracture, we were worried the recovery would be extensive. We were wrong.  In three weeks, the cast came off and his arm was perfect. Actually, where the bone had broken was actually stronger than before the trauma.

For a long time, Austin would refer to his arm as his broken arm.  If a friend would grab his arm in play, he would jerk it back and say, “No, not my broken arm!” We would remind him that his arm was healed and that he just needed to be careful. “But Mommy, I don’t want it to get broken again.”

Yeah, me either my precious boy. How like us to never want to go through pain again? To experience trauma or heartache, we avoid them at all cost.  Just look around our houses…safety precautions everywhere.

Join me next time, as we learn how the Lord uses our suffering for our good and his glory…that he never wastes a hurt and never misses a single tear.

Please click the below link to read part 2 of Stronger than Before.

https://melissalongval.wordpress.com/2015/04/10/stronger-than-before-part-2/