Healing.

For the 11th time in my 14 years of parenting, I watched as nurses wheeled one of my children back to an operating room.

For the 11th time, I left the pre-op area, chin quivering, trying to be strong and not fall apart in front of nurses and staff going about their routine day-to-day tasks.

For the 11th time, I waited anxiously; I watched the clock nervously; I occupied a waiting area and attempted to while away hours while I...waited.

And for the 11th time, I found that my prayers went something like this, "Please God. Please."

Because I have to tell you that practice does not make this particular thing perfect. At all. It does not get easier the more you experience it. It does not become routine, it does not become less frightening or more easy-to-handle.

When a child needs surgery it does not matter at all how strong he seems every other day of the year because laying on that gurney dressed in a hospital gown, eyes looking up at you for comfort, for assurance, for encouragement that this will be OK, he is vulnerable. He needs me. And letting him go is one of the single hardest things I have ever had to do. Eleven times.

We are home. And so now, for the 11th time, the healing begins. My guy will work his legs. He'll try to move past the pain caused by all the incisions. He will try to overcome his fears that getting back on his feet -- literally -- will be as hard as it was when he had the initial surgery in May 2010.

And I will keep praying. Thankful that when my heart is so overcome with concern for my boy; my mind is so exhausted from the round-the-clock care-giving; and words are not making sense at all -- Jesus will hear my prayers, my groanings -- my simplistic prayers --  and He will interpret them to the Father.

What a blessing.