Thy will be done

I told him, “I say, ‘Thy will be done.’”

It sounds easy when it’s someone else’s life, someone else’s struggle. But years later, I would have to see if I truly believed it—when that prayer became my own.

My oldest daughter’s life hung by a thread. She was bleeding out from a failed tonsil surgery, having lost over a liter of blood in her tiny body. The doctors were rushing her onto a Flight for Life helicopter. One of them turned to Shay and me, his eyes heavy with urgency, and said, “You might want to hurry. This could be the last time you see her.”

Without a second thought, Shay threw me the keys. I slammed my foot on the accelerator, the speedometer climbing past 110, weaving through traffic, every second stretching like a lifetime. I prayed silently, begging God to guide my hands on the wheel, to keep me safe, to keep my daughter alive. The city blurred past me, each red light a dagger of fear in my chest.

When we arrived, they were wheeling her away. I ran to her side. She wasn’t frightened—she was barely conscious—but I whispered into her small, pale ear, “We love you. It’s going to be okay.” Then they took her, leaving us standing alone in the cold, sterile hallway, the echo of the wheels fading.

I stumbled toward some empty benches and sank to my knees, trembling. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I wanted to bargain, to promise God anything in exchange for her life. But the words caught in my throat. Instead, I whispered from the deepest part of my fear and faith, “God, I trust You. Do what is best for her and for our family. Thy will be done.”

Hours later, she came out of surgery. She survived.

That day changed everything. Every struggle, every ordinary and extraordinary moment since has been a lesson in trust. I’ve learned to see Him in the chaos, in the pain, and even in the crawling moments when life feels too heavy to bear. Even when life has me crawling, I know He’s got me exactly where I need to be.