Through my daughter's health journey, all my hope is in Jesus

In April 2025, out of the blue, our two-year-old had a day of non-convulsive seizures. Her eyes would roll back into her head; she would lose awareness and be unable to communicate while in the depths of the episode. Then it would pass, and she would seem almost like herself – though her left eye remained droopy and not quite right. 

By the end of the day, we were admitted to hospital. Like is so often the case, once we arrived she seemed almost completely fine! Over the next three days she went through a bunch of tests and all came back clear. We left the hospital with absolutely no answers. 

Over the next couple of weeks, it seemed that the medical professionals were very keen on putting her on precautionary anti-epileptic medication, even though they had said it wasn’t epilepsy. Something didn’t sit right with me and I couldn’t shake it. The paediatrician we were dealing with told me I’d be risking brain damage if we didn’t, but I wasn’t feeling settled about putting pretty hardcore drugs in my tiny two-year-old’s brain. 

An invitation

I decided to seek out a paediatric neurologist. They are relatively hard to find and even harder to get an appointment with. Incredibly, I got an appointment within three weeks, with the most highly recommended doctor who just so happened to be at our local hospital.  

Leeora’s MRI had revealed a small cyst, deep in her brain, that wouldn’t have caused the seizures but the hospital said they would follow up in a year just to check it wasn’t doing much. However, when the fabulous neurologist looked at the scan she said: “Hmm, that’s actually not a normal cyst. That’s what we call a complex one”. What that meant was it was a little more sinister and needed closer monitoring, so she brought the repeat MRI forward to six months’ time. While it wasn’t mentioned in the appointment, it was clear that this was more of a concern and that, basically, we could be looking at the early stages of a brain tumour. 

I left that appointment with my precious girl in my arms and, as I strapped her into her car seat, I had such a clear vision in my mind of two paths. One path went off to the left and was signposted ‘Peace’, while the other veered off to the right and was named ‘Worry’. But I could see, in this vision, that both paths ended up in the same place: “What will be will be”. I knew the Lord was presenting me with a choice. I felt He was saying: “In these next six months, you get to choose which path you [walk]. You can pick the path of peace or the path of worry, but whichever you choose it will not alter the outcome, only your experience of the journey getting there”. 

Obviously, I chose peace. I know that sounds simple. But it really was. I believe it was equal parts choice and a grace given. It was so clear in my mind that my worry would change nothing, but peace would guard me on the path for the next six months. As it says in Matthew 6:27: “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” and John 14:27: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you”. It was both a choice – a command – “Do not worry”, as much as a gift bestowed to me for this season.

Walking a sacred path

Over the next six months, I truly remained remarkably peaceful. Sharing on social media to ask for prayer, facing a million questions and batting off other people’s projected fears didn’t stack up to walking a path of peace, so I chose to keep it quite hidden, only telling a few close friends in our community. It felt sacred – a holy walk. Of course, there were moments of ‘relapse’ – mostly late at night when my thoughts began to swirl. I found ChatGPT was the perfect direct shortcut to the path of worry as I ‘fear dumped’ my questions onto it and it would affirm my worries, answer my questions as best it could and then ask if I wanted to know more, which, of course, my anxious brain feasted upon. One evening, I very clearly heard the voice of the Lord say: “Sarah, this will not bring you the peace you crave”. It was a gentle, loving but firm rebuke. I closed the laptop, said: “You’re right, Lord. Sorry!” and went to sleep.  

The repeat MRI date arrived and Leeora and I spent the early morning preparing. She, I think, had little idea of what was happening. Her pre-meds made her sleepy and cuddly and I held her as she dozed off so peacefully. “She’s yours, Jesus,” I said, “she’s always been yours” and I found deep comfort in knowing that she was held so tenderly and yet so tightly in His hands. 

All of my hope was in Jesus – regardless of the outcome 

The moment where the calm ended and the reality of what we could be facing flooded into my being was when, halfway through the MRI, the neurologist called and asked if she had permission to do a lumber puncture while Leeora was asleep to test for tumour markers in her spinal fluid and blood. Tumour. Even though I’d known this is what had always been on the table, the word ‘tumour’ had never been used, and in that moment I felt my peace flee and anxiety well up in me. Could my two-year-old really have a brain tumour? 

We left the hospital shortly after and, as I got into my car, I again felt this wave of anxiety well up in me. My initial reaction was to try and shut it down – that I had to be peaceful. I almost felt ashamed. Then, once again, I heard the voice of the Lord speak softly: “Sarah, I’ve never asked you to be anything other than what you are right now. Your anxiety is a gift to me – if you’ll give it – because it is your truest self. And when you give me the gift of anxiety, I can gift you with my peace.” I saw in my mind’s eye me holding a big red box with a big red bow on the top. I knew my anxiety was inside of it. As I lay it at the feet of Jesus, He took it and gave me back the same red box but this time there was peace inside. He said this was my gift for today and that, as I waited for the results, whenever anxiety rose within me, I was to gift it to Him and receive back His peace. Even if I had to do it 100 times, He was OK with that. 

Transformation

That day was a hard day. I fought back tears and wrestled to surrender my anxiety to Jesus. At lunchtime, I went on a walk in my favourite place and as I trod the dusty ground I prayed and prayed and let the tears roll. At some point I felt the tangible presence of Jesus with me, walking right beside me. He said to me: “Sarah, I need you to face the reality of what might be coming.” And my response? “No. No, Jesus, I don’t want to. I would rather continue to declare that I trust You and my hope is in You and just somehow force myself to believe that this is all going to be fine.” But He continued to say: “I need you to face it.” With overwhelming grief and, to be honest, minimal courage, I turned myself to face the possible reality of my two-year-old having a brain tumour. And as I did, something beautiful happened. I felt hope catapult from my chest, fly through the thin veil that I believe separates this life from the next, and land somewhere deep in eternity. Like a bungee rope pulling someone from the safety of the solid ground beneath their feet into the free-fall, I felt this hope being pulled from what I could know and see and experience in this life and into a deeper reality. 

In that moment two things happened:

Firstly, a prayer of mine of many years was answered. I have always sung songs that declare “all my hope is in Jesus” and “You’re my living hope” but, to be honest, I’ve always known that wasn’t true in my heart. What was true was that all my hope was actually in the good outcome I was praying for: “I hope I get this job, I hope this person gets well, I hope things go well for me, I hope our businesses will grow”. I’d never been able to truly say “my hope is in Jesus”, until then. Something happened in that moment that meant, for the first time ever, even as I stared down at potential devastation, all of my hope was in Jesus – regardless of the outcome. 

Secondly, and relatedly, I become completely and utterly convinced of the goodness of God. In that moment, I was so convinced of His goodness that it left an actual taste in my mouth! Only later was I reminded that Psalm 34:8 says: “Taste and see that the Lord is good”.

As I drove home at the end of the day, still waiting to hear from the doctor, I knew that no matter what the results were, we were going to be OK. Regardless of the outcome, He is good. If we got the call to say it was a tumour, of course that would be utterly devastating, but the taste in my mouth made me feel almost invincible, unshakeable. I knew that nothing could convince me otherwise. He is good and all my hope is in Him. I felt so free.  

Ten minutes later the doctor called to say my daughter had the all clear. The cyst remains the same and we continue to monitor it, but we do not need to go back for another year. Praise God. 

He is good, yes, but not because we got the all clear. The gift of this season, the invitation from Him, was and is to know Him like never before. To become utterly convinced in who He says He is, knowing He is good, regardless of whether I experience what I think the manifestation of His goodness should look like in this life. Knowing He is good, regardless of whether my prayers are answered the way I think they should be. 

He is good and in Him we have all our hope. 

Originally from the UK, Sarah lives in Cape Town, South Africa with her husband and four children. sarahlamour.com