The whole world is in capable hands...

Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens,
Your faithfulness to the skies…
How priceless is your unfailing love!
Both high and low among men
Find refuge in the shadow of your wings.
-Psalm 36: 5,7

My 3-year-old just graduated to a booster car seat. My 15-month-old is daily increasing his vocabulary. My infant just turned one month old.

It’s been an eventful month since Hosea joined our family. There have been good times…like intentional family picnics and walks to the neighborhood pool—times when it was easy to say, “God, I love these children so much my heart is going to explode.” Even our first plane trip to Arizona so the band I share with my husband could record our third music project, a full-length worship album.

While it was difficult juggling the three boys and some days I had to remind myself, “God, I love these children so much my heart is going to explode”—the days when I would start to feed Hosea just minutes before Asa would slip on a blanket Jadon had left on the floor and bust his head on the tile at the same time Jadon would urgently announce, “I need to go potty!”—I count the trip among the good times of the last month.

Good times because there were some much more challenging times.

The first time we noticed the bruised bump on Jadon’s back, we thought it was exactly that. A bruise. One that would eventually go away.

A month, two, passed. It didn’t go away, but we thought maybe it was because he’s a normal boy—rough and rowdy and rambunctious—and kept bruising it during wrestling matches with his little brother or his daddy.

So we waited another month. Two. Three. I made a mental note to make an appointment with our pediatrician so he could check it out, give us his medical opinion. Set our hearts at ease.

Then Hosea was born. A fill-in pediatrician scratched down on her official notepad that his heart sounded like it might have a murmur that should technically have gone away 48 hours after his birth. A little side note on her “he’s healthy” assessment. A big, bold headline in our “he’s perfect” assessment.

A week after his birth, we took Hosea to our pediatrician. He’d gained almost a pound and had grown an inch and a half. The murmur was still there.

He couldn’t explain the lump on Jadon’s back.

So we found ourselves, one week before leaving for our Arizona trip, visiting a dermatologist for Jadon and a pediatric cardiologist for Hosea.

I couldn’t help but panic. My firstborn had a lump. My newborn had a heart murmur.

I cried so much in that one week. Every time I thought about Jadon, held his little-boy hand in mine, kissed his sweet, growing-up face, panic would claw at my throat. Every time I thought about Hosea, held the bundle that barely filled my lap, kissed his tiny-baby face, fear would burn my eyes. Every time I perused the Internet, looking for information about a lump on a child’s back and what it could possibly be and about a heart murmur and what we could possibly do, crushing despair would immobilize everything but the tears.

Oh, God, I love these boys so much my heart could explode.

The fear, the panic, the crushing despair, made me start to believe that God couldn’t possibly bless me with three perfectly healthy children. I kept thinking my “favor” had run out, that I didn’t deserve what favor I had been given.

Every time I thought about it—which was every time I had a moment to think—I cried.

Four days before our trip, we sat in the waiting room at a dermatologist’s office. My hands shook as I held Jadon’s all the way to the examination room. I began to think that maybe if I had protected Jadon more, tamed his wild ways, the lump would not be there. Maybe if I had spent more time praying or reading God’s word or just hanging out with him, none of this would be happening.

The dermatologist examined Jadon’s back, felt the raised area and concluded it was a benign buildup of fatty tissue that, as long as it’s not bothering Jadon, would not have to be removed. We made a follow-up appointment for October, just to make sure the lump hasn’t grown and still isn’t bothering Jadon, but the dermatologist didn’t seem concerned at all, said sometimes lipomas (his technical term) can develop if there’s been trauma to the area, which happens nearly every day with our energetic 3-year-old.

That same afternoon, Jadon and Asa made friends with some children in the waiting area while Hosea was hooked up to some machines at a cardiologist’s office. I watched the doctor do an echocardiogram of my 2-week-old, stared as he pointed out the four chambers of my tiny baby’s heart, marveled as he pointed out the miniature arteries and blood flow to and from the heart. Maybe every other day I take it for granted, but that day I saw the miracle of every miniscule piece working together to keep my baby alive.

The cardiologist concluded that Hosea’s heart is perfectly normal, that his blood just rushes quickly and makes a whooshing sound as it’s flowing to and from the heart, but that it’s nothing abnormal. He’s a perfectly healthy baby.

The relief was…overwhelming.

The day before our double-appointment day, Ben had sent me a text that said, “God’s love for you will not run out.” Made me cry, of course. Maybe he had no idea how much I needed to be reminded of that. Maybe he did.

But two weeks ago, when my children received their clean bills of health, I felt that love. I realized, with almost-desperate relief, that the God who loves me—who LOVES me more than I can even comprehend, more than I can possibly love my children—has every single detail of my world in his hands.

He’s got the tiny little babies in his hands. He’s got the mothers and the fathers in his hands. He’s go the sisters and the brothers in his hands. He’s got the whole world in his hands.

He’s got the whole world in his hands. The WHOLE world. That whole world includes Jadon. Asa. Hosea. Ben. Me.

Thank you, God, that you have the tiny little babies and the precious little boys and girls and even the mamas and daddies in your hands.