I sat next to him in the Children’s hospital waiting for him to wake up. The doctor had been in and said, “We’ll let him wake and see how he goes. If he wakes without a problem, we’ll let him wake up fully. But, if he starts to fit again . . .” The doctor paused, “Well, let’s just see how he goes.”

There was another tube—a smaller one—that went in his nose and down into his stomach. “He’s not going to like that tube either,” the nurse said. “But, we can’t let him take it out.” She taped the hose to his little nose to make sure it stayed in place.
In the next hour, Cyrus woke bit by bit. He tried, many times, to open his eyes and make sense of his surroundings. We talked to him; told him where he was, told him we were with him, told him we loved him.
The whole ordeal was more stressful than I can ever explain. The thoughts in my head were at war. I wondered if he would wake at all, if he would fit again, if he would be paralysed or brain damaged. The other side of my brain yelled, “Hey! Stop those horrible thoughts! He’s just asleep. He’s gonna wake up and be just fine.” I sat, watching, waiting and hoping.
Slowly he started to cry. “My nose hurts,” he said in a slow drugged voice. My heart did a backflip for joy! He’s talking! He’s not fitting. He’s whinging! Cyrus is back!
When I told him later how happy I was to hear him complain, he looked at me like I was very strange.

I wonder if that’s how God feels about our prayers. He knows we are hurting. He knows what we are going through. But just to hear our voice . . . it must mean the world to Him.
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