We had a quick trip to Houston last week to revisit some ENT issues with Ruger, and to see our friends, the Blankenships. Oliver, their son and Sunley's first heart buddy, just celebrated one year with his transplanted heart. If you have followed Sunley’s story for any time at all, you have definitely heard about Oliver and Ivy (Ivy has her Fontan coming up this year sometime).

Our reunion was as beautiful as ever – to see them in their fresh start new house, and to be able to wrap my arms around both of those boys, and their parents. What a gift.

As with any trip to the hospital, however, I came back with echoes in my head and a heaviness on my back. I can never pinpoint one emotion or one memory that these visits bring back. But I walk into that hospital just very aware of what's behind the doors. There, we swim in a sea of injustice. It is nearly tangible: a staggering, overwhelming injustice. Everywhere you look, there is pain. I see a mom carrying a pair of tiny shoes, wearing a matching T-shirt with her husband. I know where her child is. Injustice. I have carried shoes, too.

We watch another mother tell her healthy son goodbye while he cries, so that she can go back to the ICU alone. He wants to stay with her, but he can't. Injustice. I have peeled my children off of me, too.

Those are the images I can list. There are others that shouldn't be written here. Demons smile in every dark corner, pleased with such deep injustice.

Injustice is the opposite of God, isn't it? He is righteousness. He is the light that hollows out those evil corners. He is the only thing that makes sense. He is justice.

So that means, when I am overwhelmed by injustice, I am actually being overwhelmed because I am seeing things, hearing things, feeling things that are the exact opposite of God. They are in opposition to Him.

No wonder it feels too heavy for me to hold. I was not made for these things, and yet this is where I find myself.

And in that despair, somehow, He is there: Spirit, Jesus, my friend. He cups my face in his hands and kisses my forehead and I can look at Him. He doesn't need to say anything for me to know that He already knows it all. He knows. He feels it. He sees even more than I do.

And knowing He is there changes everything.

He invades every corner of injustice with a peace that can not be explained, but is tangible. Angels walk the hall alongside doctors, and take up space where demons can not reach. The sounds that echo in my mind bring a darkness that make every color He created saturate. I see pain differently not because He takes it away, but because He accompanies it. And inexplicably, I feel grateful — actually grateful — to be chosen to see behind this curtain and to experience this place that holds so much pain.

I am now overwhelmed by a joy so great that it enables me to look boldly at the injustice and wait.

The day is coming when God will say “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH” And Jesus, already standing from His seat, will come and justify what has gone wrong. Yes, I will wait, but I will not wait quietly.

When I think of these things, my hands shake and my eyes weep and the only sound that I can muster is the weakest hallelujah. The inability to express how beautifully He has filled all emptiness leaves me feeling dissatisfied…one might say unjustified?

Thank God even a weak hallelujah breaks chains.