I have four children. Lots of people I know have children. Some of them have a lot of children. If you ever get into a deep conversation about the love of a parent, you may find something surprising. Not everyone falls in love with their children at the first knowledge or sight of them. Sometimes love has to grow. My love grows for my children. Certainly I’m not talking about “loving” them by the definition of how I care for them and protect them. That type of love comes with the responsibility to care, which is and should be instinctual. What I’m talking about is the choice a parent makes to love. It’s not based on tangible factors, because, let’s face it, babies don’t do anything for their parents. It’s a one-way, parent-directed relationship for a long time. The first thing our kids give us is their incessant need. Their need of us is all they can give us when they are little. These needs are and should be satisfied by our parental responsibility to provide care. Choosing to love a child is something entirely different. When choosing to love, love can grow.
Thelo spent the first two months of his life in the hospital. Nights, days, and weeks all became blurred and I still have no concept of time when thinking back to the first year of Thelo’s life. Somewhere in-between his first (nine days) and second surgery (four months), I remember a critical conversation with God.
Thelo was laying in his clear acrylic bassinet, awake and content. His monitors were awake and fairly content, as well. I sat on the bed and looked out the window. Our TV, as usual, was off. It was a rare quiet moment that hospital stays rarely afford. I had been learning a lot about Thelo’s health. I had become proficient at caring for him, or at least able to note when he needed help I couldn’t give. If that was the case, I was quick to ask for help from the staff, making sure to ask ample questions so that I could learn more about his condition and circumstance. By all means and purposes, I surpassed the requirements of being responsible for him. I cared for him and loved him. But, as I sat down on the bed, a familiar feeling washed over me. I felt like I was supposed to be doing something significant, like I was forgetting some important task. I glanced anxiously around the room, checked Thelo’s parameters, and uncomfortably settled back down on the corner of the bed. “Shouldn’t you be holding your baby?” begged a question in my mind. “No,” I thought, “he’s happy and there is no reason to mess with him.” “Why don’t you want to hold your baby?” came a slightly different question. Somewhat defensively, I replied, “It’s not that I don’t want to hold him.” “Then why aren’t you?” came the retort. I was stumped. I couldn’t give a good reason not to hold him, but I felt no motivation to actually go and lift him from his bassinette during an uncommon comfortable and awake moment. I continued to sit there, bewildered by my indifference.
Did I want to know why I felt the way I did? I don’t know if that came as a question to prompt my question, or if I simply became curious enough to actually ask, but I asked Him nonetheless, “Alright, God, why don’t I want to hold my baby?” I don’t remember if I asked the question out-loud or in my head, but my words soaked down deep inside me, like the warmth of liquor moving down through my throat and rolling in my stomach. My answer surprised me not because it wasn’t true, but because of how incredibly honest it was. I told God, “I’m not holding my baby because he might not live through his next surgery.” I shrugged and slumped my shoulders, resigning myself to this true and honest confession not expecting that God could do anything about my intentions or motivations, because neither of those things could or would save my child’s life. The room was quiet. “Shouldn’t you love your baby?” came a soft and difficult question. “Why should I? If he’s not going to live (which I have no control over), isn’t it better if I love him less so that it doesn’t destroy me if he does die?” Then, amazingly, came these severing and distinct questions, “Which would you regret more: Losing him, never having loved him, forfeiting his value for self preservation? Or: Loving him completely, valuing him enough to lose some of yourself if you do lose him?” I realized that my indifference was selfishness. I was choosing me over him. I was sinning against God and failing my child. God had directed a spotlight into my heart and showed me that my attempts to be responsible, attentive, and caring meant nothing if I didn’t love with the love that God was capable of providing in me and through me.
In light of the discerning questions that He had asked me, aware of the bad choice I was making, I still sat, unmoving, unable, on that hospital bed. “I can’t, God. I can’t love him, knowing he might die. But, I know You can. Will you help me love him?” I leaned forward and put weight on my feet. I walked to Thelo’s bedside, I intentionally lifted him from his place, redirected his leads, and brought him to my side of the room we shared. I prayed for him. The Lord loved through me. At that point, by the grace of God, I chose to love my son. That love has only grown. It has thrived to the point where, each moment I look, hold, listen, or scold, I’m begging God for the kind of love that I am naturally incapable of. The kind of love that has no regrets. The kind of love that lays its own needs aside so that it can be complete in us both. Jesus has that kind of love for me. While I was broken, unlovely, nearly dead, and incomplete, He alone interceded for me. While I offered Him nothing but my neediness, He laid down His life, took my place, healed me, and brought me into eternal life. I only needed to put all my trust in Him. Thelo wasn’t old enough to understand his need for Jesus. I was responsible to love, as a representative of the love that God has for us both. God chose to love. Those who are IN Him, choose to love because they have the love of God in them, not of their own selves, but from God whose supply of love is unending.
Slow to Speak 