My cell phone rang at 4 pm, the time of day where the chaos of homework, dinner prep, and unfinished work proposals collide. I answered while dodging two kiddos playing chase through the kitchen.

“Mrs. Diaz?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“This is Coach. Your son had a hard head collision at soccer practice….” The rest of the conversation I caught in small fragments as my ears filled with a loud roaring sound. The pieces I heard, however, didn’t sound good.  “….trouble speaking…..blurred vision….difficulty walking…..”

And just like that your world tilts on its axis. A life that was routinely spinning in one direction dramatically shifts and you are left clinging with both hands, struggling to regain your balance.

I began to frantically gesture for my three kids to find some shoes. They looked puzzled, trying to decipher my spastic pantomime.

“I’ll be right there.” I told the coach. I hung up and yelled, “Shoes! Find your shoes now!”

My ten year old, God love her, instantly grasped the gravity of the situation and took charge of her younger sister. I scoured the house for the other child’s shoes. Nothing. One flip flop on the second floor. Really! Why is it that in an emergency, the things you’re always tripping over can never be found?

I abandoned the search, grabbed the five year old and carried him, shoeless, to the car.

I arrived at the field and an assistant helped my son slowly across the grass. His face was white and he needed support to walk straight. It took every ounce of restraint for me not to sprint over and pick-up my 5’6” child and carry him the rest of the way. The watching eyes of his 15 teammates and the impact to his highly coveted soccer cred forced my feet to remain planted.

We got him into the car and my village sprung into action. A friend offered to collect his belongings and a neighbor met me in the driveway to grab my younger kiddos. Thank you village!

I drove quickly to the Urgent Care, fearing permanent brain damage or swelling. I glanced at his face and saw tears in his eyes. I hollowly assured him that everything would be fine. He responded that it most definitely would not be. He was going to have to miss the scrimmage against the girl’s soccer team the next afternoon. I let out a much needed laugh, happy that those were the concerns that filled his mind. Leave the serious worry to the mama.

Upon our arrival, the doctor ran through a list of symptoms: fogginess in brain, difficulty remembering, irritability, headache….

I was struck by how similar the side effects of motherhood were to those of a concussion.

“I’m going to say three words and I want you to tell me them when I ask you to in a few minutes,” the doctor said.

I concentrated hard, trying to remember as well. She continued with some balance and coordination tests and then asked him to repeat the words. He slowly recited each one. I managed two out of three.

We left with the diagnosis of concussion and strict instructions. Absolutely no soccer or physical activity, lots of rest and no screen time. What sounded like a blissful retreat to a mama was a most cruel and torturous fate for a twelve year old.

“My life is over,” he moaned.

“We can sit and talk,” I countered cheerfully.

“OVER!” he lamented.

“I could read your texts to you and type your replies,” I generously offered. He winced both from pain and mortification and replied, “no…..ummmm….. just no.”

Two LONG days later we arrived back at the doctor’s office to test his progress. I was feeling relaxed. His balance seemed better and his sense of humor had returned.

The doctor came in with the results.

“Your balance has definitely improved,” she began. I smiled at my son encouragingly.

“Unfortunately, your memory is shot.” she continued.

The doctor angled the paper toward me to reveal 2% out of 100.

Shot was not a medical term I was familiar with. Was this permanent? Would it improve? Certainly as an adult many of us wish to forget our middle school years, but you have to make those memories first.

“Let’s try a couple more tests,” she said.

As I watched my smart, articulate, funny child struggle to remember the month of the year and count backwards from 100, I found myself standing on a boat, in the middle of a lake. The waves were massive. Crashing over the sides. The wind raged. The sound deafening. I was being swept up and pulled under.

Suddenly a voice said, “Quiet! Be still.” (Mark 4:39)

And He is there. In the middle of my storm.

I am still in a boat, in the middle of the lake. There is still a storm….wind….fear. But my eyes are focused on Him. His gaze does not waver.

I wish I could tell you these moments won’t happen in your life. I want to tell you that you that we have made it through to the other side. That all is well.

But I can’t.

These moments will happen. In every mama’s life, the storms will come.

We are still walking through our storm. Pushed by the wind. Battered by the waves. Swallowing the fear. Clinging to faith.

But I can tell you this. With each step we take, both the forward and back, there He remains, eyes fixed, unwavering, standing in the middle of my storm.