While her little sister napped and her older sister was at school, Brooke seized the moment of uninterrupted time with me. We played doctor.
She always was the doctor. I always was the patient. I received seventy-three shots. In spite of this, it was quite an enjoyable time, especially when she brought me a pillow, covered me with a blanket, and told me that I'd feel better when I rested.
Precisely when I settled my head down and thought that I could get used to this kind of treatment, she yanked the blanket aside, ordered me to sit up, and took my blood pressure by attaching the cuff to my ankle and tapping at my knee.
She's still in training.
Yet, one thing that Brooke is certain of is that God heals our boo-boos. She's the girl who loves band-aids. She's the one who announces "it blooded" when pointing to a scrape on her shin. She's intrigued with injury, it would seem, and her intrigue is coupled with a simple and solid faith.
"Jesus makes you better, Mommy," she says as she pats me on the head, wedges the thermometer in my mouth, and places the stethoscope on my forehead.
Isn't that the truth?