There are no words.

A good friend of mine took her 3-year-old daughter, Cassidy, to the hospital yesterday because her pediatrician was concerned that Cassidy had meningitis. The CT scan reveiled a peach-size brain tumor that has probably been growing for years. I can only imagine the fear and sadness of such a diagnosis. The pain of its grip as it squeezes you tighter and tighter with the realization of what's to come. It changes your life forever; it changes who you are.

Cassidy is an angelic looking little girl—pale skin, long wavy blond hair, and sparkling eyes. She's bright and funny, articulate and caring. She and her sister, Sterling, spent much of their summer at our house with Hawthorne and Ainsley. They all developed a sibling-like relationship. You know, comfortable with screaming at each other and then walking to the other room to all play a game of princess. I have an attachment to her that makes me want to protect her from the IVs, tests, surgery, and recovery that she faces. And I don't even want to think about the treatments she may face beyond that. She is both strong and fragile. Independent but in need of rescuing.

We all fear for our children from the moment we know of their conception. We fear the fragility of life. We worry about the fragility of identity. We are relieved when they are born without major complications. Thankful when they have made it through the SIDS window and stayed on track in their growth. We are reassured when they make friends at school and keep up with the lessons. But we don't know what the next day will bring any of us. And for that, there are no words.