As an expectant parent, there are a lot of things you tend to worry about: “What will my kid be like?” “What sex will it be?” “Is he or she forming correctly?” “Are there any indications that there could be developmental difficulties?” The list could go on and on. And while we say that we don’t care what we have, so long as it’s a healthy baby, the truth is we have opinions and expectations on everything from the sex to the hair and eye color to the personality.( Ok, I’ll speak for myself) I had opinions and expectations, expectations that my son would be born normally, safely, without complication. Expectations that he would be perfect in every way, even if I couldn’t articulate all the characteristics needed to make him perfect.
And then, life threw the switch that rerouted our train of expectations down an unfamiliar, scary track that forced Cathy and me to jettison our expectations just so we could stay on the rails.
When Cathy’s water broke and she was forced to rest in a hospital bed for the duration of her pregnancy, we had to pitch some of our expectations about how we would prepare for Grayson’s birth and when he would be born, but were able to hold onto most of the other ones.
When he was born 11 weeks prematurely, we had to jettison more of our expectations, such as how big he would be and how quickly he would come home. But even then, as a novice NICU parent, I had no idea just how foreign this track was to the one we had traveled with Ethan. As I watched my newborn son breathing on his own in the first minutes outside of the womb, with his little ribcage literally being sucked down towards his spine with every labored breath, all I could see was a little guy who had fight and was going to beat the odds. I couldn’t recognize the distress he was in. At that point, I still had the expectation that he would be stronger than most other kids born as prematurely as he had been; I still believed that his biggest issue would be the fingers that were fused together due to amniotic banding which would require a minor surgery. I was still able to hold onto my expectations that he would leave the hospital far earlier than most babies born under his circumstances.
The next couple days shook those expectations out of us. We got to the point where we couldn’t even expect that he would come home at all. Our image of perfection was marred by tubes and monitors and needles and troubling x-rays. This wasn’t the track we had anticipated, the one that, in hindsight, I suppose we had felt entitled to. After all, we’d prayed for Grayson since before he was ever conceived, we’d prayed for his health and protection throughout his gestation. In no way was this what we’d had in mind.
And yet, as I look back on the last month and a half of Grayson’s life, as I survey the broken track that our family has limped down, what looked so dark and foreboding heading in takes on an unexpected sweetness in hindsight. I think of the doctors and nurses that have become more than attendants – they’ve become friends and prayer warriors along with us (so many of Gray’s nurses have told us they are praying for him). I think of our family and friends who have supported us all along the way, helped us shoulder our emotional and physical burdens, and lifted up our son and our family in prayer throughout. I think of the way I celebrate what we had taken for granted with Ethan: that he can breathe on his own; that his ears and eyes are developing normally; that he can drink milk; that he continues to grow gram by gram, ounce by ounce. And I think of the way Grayson’s story and God’s faithfulness in the midst of the complications has reminded me (and others) that the goal of life isn’t becoming more comfortable and safe.
I’ve become increasingly convinced that the purpose of life is to grow evermore intimately familiar with my creator and to learn how to walk with Him and to live a life that reflects His heart and love to a world that would rather deny His existence. Though I wouldn’t have chosen the path we’ve taken over these last couple months, though I would have preferred to avoid the emotional stress it’s placed on my family and loved ones, I can’t help but admit that it has drawn me much deeper into the arms of my Father God. I’ve learned to see the beauty in the broken track we’ve journeyed down; I’ve learned to celebrate the little blessings that we so often take for granted; and I’ve learned that often times my definition of perfection isn’t God’s definition. Because, as I look into my son’s deep blue eyes which are processing light months before they were designed to, as I hold his tiny hands which can grasp my finger even though bound by amniotic bands, and as I watch his chest rise and fall in spite of the abuse his lungs have taken over the first 45 days of his premature life, I see a gift from God that goes beyond the birth of my second son. I see a growing, breathing testimony to God’s grace. I see a living reminder that what the world holds up as perfection is often nothing more than the easy, comfortable track that allows us to be self-reliant.
So, no, my son may not be what we’d expected throughout the 6 months of his gestation, but he is the perfect gift from a loving God who cares far more about our character and spiritual maturity than He does our comfort. And I thank God for the broken track He allowed us to travel down, because it has impelled us to lean into Him rather than simply rest in our expectations. Thank you, Father, for Grayson. May you continue to have your way with him.
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