This summer while at Disney's California Adventure theme park, I went on a ride with my son that shot us up into the air, then dropped us down one small drop at a time. I knew it wasn't my kind of thrill, but I didn't want him to go alone. As the attendant was strapping us in, I nearly asked to get off. I was literally terrified - even to the verge of tears. I felt foolish. I shut my eyes and prayed, white knuckled. The ride went it's course, but I entered into a place somehow of peace and floating. As my fear subsided, I managed to pry open my eyelids only to find out we were in the process of landing -- the ride was over. I wondered several times since then if what I experienced was an adrenaline overload, or the real peace of God flowing over me. I imagined others in terrifying situations (real terrifying situations, by the way -- not at Disneyland...) finding peace in their worst moments. This seemed more possible to me, having experienced this as such.

Today, my son had an emergency MRI due to a bad screening on a standard eye exam. Although all reports are positive and indicate a false alarm, I felt as I did that day in Disneyland -- white knuckled and terrified, at the verge of tears. I remembered the sensation I had then of peace and floating, and I prayed continuously while sitting alongside the ominous tube, the muffled sound of the knocking and buzzing made surreal by the thick ear plugs. All my thoughts seemed to echo in my head. If I put words to my prayers they seemed thin and whiny, so I prayed in my spirit. More than once this year, I imagined Abraham and what he might of thought and prayed during his infamous hike to the place of sacrifice. "bring your son, your only son, whom you love..." I looked at my boy's giant size 14 feet peeking out from the blanket and wondered if he was cold. I wondered if he was afraid or uncomfortable. I wondered if he was praying, and if he was in that peaceful, floating place. Mostly, I prayed that God's will be done -- whatever that will may be -- and that I would have the strength to stay on the ride, white knuckled or not. Before I knew it, I pryed open my eyes to find us safe on the ground once again.

As the radiologist rolled my son out of the tube, I couldn't help but imagine him as the attendant at another scary thrill ride. "You survived," he said sarcastically to my stiff necked son. "Barely. I need food (what else?) and some serious head movement." "Ah, quit whining," our attendant said playfully, "you'll live to see another day." He seemed to direct that comment at me. "Does it look okay?" I asked (typical mom). "I'm not the Dr.", he said sternly, then added with a wink, "but I did throw you a little hint just then." There I was again, on the verge of tears. "I have to hug you, " I didn't really give him enough warning. I hugged our ride attendant and told him thank you and merry christmas. He looked boyish and tried to wipe the "ah shucks" expression from his face. He stiffened up as I saw him look beyond me and I saw his stoic expression come back. I turned to see a frightened looking old woman preparing for her turn in the tube. I told her "good luck" and meant it. It's a scary, scary ride.

We'll find out the final report next week (you know, the one the Dr. will prepare for us. Frankly, "you'll live to see another day" is the only sentence I'm really interested in hearing). We leave for my Grandfather's funeral tomorrow. I'll save that story for another day. It's been a busy couple of months.