Great Expectations

One of our best gifts this year wasn’t found under the tree.

Yes, this Christmas season is full of expectations for our family. But this story, like that first Christmas story, doesn’t begin during the Christmas season. Its roots stretch much farther back.

Way back to those early days, during endless skype conversations, me in China, him in Washington, when we talked and dreamed and wondered about our future family. The plan, held loosely of course, slowly emerged. Have two kids, and then adopt.

Our first arrived with nary a hiccup and just as seamlessly as our blissfully naive hearts expected. Of course we knew things could go wrong, but such possibilities were far off from our experiences and expectations. As the first grew, we started to talk and dream about the next. This time was not nearly so smooth. We experienced for the first time the loss of one without a name, one barely formed, and I was crushed. And fresh on the heels of that grief came Arabella. Those first weeks carrying her, so soon after loss, were full of fear. I breathed a huge sigh of relief upon entering my second trimester, having seen a beautiful beating heart on a screen. But the Lord had much more waiting for me – testing of trust and fears and hope, and, well, you are all familiar with the story of Arabella.

What you are not familiar with are some of the conversations in those first appointments after Bella arrived – her but a tiny babe in my arms. There were genetic counselors, needing to make it absolutely clear that this diagnosis, this genetic mutation that Bella carried, was auto recessive. Meaning any future children would have a 1 in 4 chance of the same diagnosis. And not all with the diagnosis fare as well as Bella. And so the doctors dutifully presented the options – the miracles of science today where embryos can be tested and then implanted. Or of course we could choose not to have anymore children. Then there was the one doctor, the only one who cheerfully offered a third option – “Or, we would be thrilled to treat another child of yours with EVC.”

At the time our heads swirled. We were merely trying to find our footing with Bella, to learn what life was going to be with her. Whether heart surgery was in the immediate future. How to keep her healthy through that first critical winter. The question of another baby just wasn’t on the table at the moment.

But in the back of my mind, I wondered. Is this why? Is this why the plan was placed on our hearts – have two, then adopt? Is that just what makes sense in this situation?

But even then there was something in my heart that was unsettled. And then when Bella was a mere four months old we made the crazy decision to move. And suddenly I was standing in a closet full of maternity clothes, hands on my hips. I love to purge. I love to get rid of things. And so I stood there. Do I hang on to these clothes? Will I ever need them again? Should I just take a box to the goodwill?

But once again, something tugged at my heart and I just. couldn’t. do. it. I chalked it up to hormones, packed a box of maternity clothes, and moved on. Due to unforeseen circumstances and a seemingly endlessly pushed back closing date on the house we were moving to, we ended up living at my dad’s house for several months, our things in storage. And so finally, three months later, during the unpacking process I was faced with the maternity box once again. I shoved it in the corner of the closet for several weeks, unable to face the weighty decision that seemed to be tied to it. And then when I got tired of looking at it, I moved it to the garage telling myself, “It doesn’t hurt to hang onto it for a little longer.”

It was a month or so later when dear friends over for dinner, announcing their own expectations, led to a fateful conversation between Jeff and I. Toothbrushes in hand, a slight quiver in my voice, I confessed to him, “It made me sad to hear the news. I’m so happy for them. But I was sad when I realized we may never be there again.” I fully expected him to chalk up my emotions to hormones. The nostalgia of seeing our baby grow up. But instead, he said, “I’m sad too.”

And so began discussions in earnest. Many discussions. Did we want to do this again? At first glimpse, all I could think was how terrified I surely would be in those first long months of waiting. Waiting for a possible diagnosis. Waiting for prognoses. But we did what living through Bella’s story had taught us to do. We took all the thoughts and all the emotions and we held them up against the test of Truth.

We knew the scientific odds. We knew there was a 25% chance of a child with EVC. We knew that EVC is somewhere between 30-50% lethal.

But we also knew that Jesus is 100% sovereign over the womb. And we knew we could trust Him with our hearts, with our family, with our story, with His story that He’s writing.

We knew there were no guaranteed outcomes. We knew the road could lead to an empty cradle, to the grave we planned for with Bella but miraculously had no use for. We had and have no certainty in a specific ending. But we have a faithful Companion who is and will make all things new in due time. One who gives every life, regardless of length, purpose and meaning. And we know, in our joys and perhaps even more in our suffering, we will know Him more. We know our purpose during the brief breath, this brief inhale, of life on this earth is not comfort, pleasure or ease. Our purpose is to know Him and make Him known.

And so a funny thing began to happen as we parsed through all our thoughts – holding each up to the light. We found fear fading away to hope and excitement. Wariness and weariness giving way to expectation. Quivering hearts steadied with confidence.

And so when the time appeared right, we opened our hands to what the Lord would do. And this journey began strikingly similar to the last. With the loss of another barely formed. Only there was one thing different this time. While there was grief, and mourning, and sadness over this little life, there was not the despair. We saw the work of trial and test in our hearts, as trust swelled in the One who does all things well.

And it wasn’t long after that that two pink lines appeared again. And we rejoiced at new life once again. Do you want to know something crazy? There hasn’t been an ounce of fear. Truly. You could call it naiveté, an ignorant refusal to accept the facts. I call it the powerful, inexplicable peace of the Lord.

And so we rejoice. We will rejoice over every day of life for this child because we know what a gift every day is. We know how brief and fragile life is, and we see the grace and mercy in each breath taken. And our prayer over this child is simply this – may we know you better Lord, and make you known through the life of this child.

For the only reason we have hope, the only reason we have joy, the only reason we have expectation, is because of a baby born many years ago. For “long lay the world in sin and error pining, Till he appear’d and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope the weary soul rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!”

But hear me now. This rejoicing? This is not a Pollyanna rejoicing. There is an ache, a brokenness, a grief lying under it. This Christmas I know of too many aching hearts. Of fathers gone too soon. Of children slowly, horribly losing battles against cancer. Of babies with hearts beyond repair. Of cities swirled in dust and debris and death and darkness. I scan my newsfeed, heart aching, longing, lips whispering prayers. And the word rejoice catches in my throat.

But then again I think of that first Christmas. Of a Father sending hosts to proclaim. Hosts to rejoice in song and anthem and glorious fearful displays of light. Rejoicing at a birth…knowing full well that that very birth would lead to a Good Friday day.

How could He do it? How could He send hosts of rejoicing at the initiation of the most searing loss to come?

And my heart whispers hope again. Because Good Friday is not the end. We can march on – rejoicing, ever rejoicing – though our eyes sting with tears, and our knees wear down with pleading – because Sunday is coming. A new and glorious morn is even now breaking. With no more cancer. And no more broken hearts. And no more death. And no more war.

So yes, this rejoicing, this celebrating of life is good and right and holy. And yes, this grieving, this aching, this longing for all to be made new is good and right and holy. Joy and sorrow are unceasingly mixed in this land. But the former will last, while the latter will pass away.

A thrill of hope the weary soul rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

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