When my oldest was two years old, he’d had so many ear infections he needed surgery. I remember sitting in the prep room with him and Amy, nervous for a positive outcome. I remember thinking, If I could take this from you, I would. Eustachian tubes surgeries are so common, I should not have been nervous, but I was. There’s always a risk with full sedation, but it’s minimal kept replaying over and over in my head.
After the surgery, the nurse escorted Amy and me to our son’s bedside. The sight was a bit shocking to me. The crib he was lying in had significantly tall sides; it almost looked like “baby jail”. The nurse explained the difficulties our son might have coming out of the anesthesia and then left the room.
When Micah began to whine and wake, I lowered the side of the crib and picked him up to soothe him. He immediately stopped whining; however, he began fighting me, trying to get out of my grip. I didn’t realize how strong toddlers could be. It took everything in me to keep a hold of him as he threw his head forcibly backward. Amy suggested I lay him down. I agreed, nearly dropping my flailing son into the crib. As soon as Micah was out of my grip, he started whining and he instantly raised his hands begging to be picked up and held. I picked him up. He instantly began fighting and wailing. I set him down, trying to soothe him in the crib, to no avail. Amy tried as well. For nearly thirty minutes, we rotated through this same pattern. Amy was concerned she would drop him, so I picked Micah up, but she stood at my side, hands on our son, praying. It was an exhausting half-hour. All at once, Micah – while in my arms – stopped fighting and the light in his eyes returned. He looked at me, seemed to recognize he was safe, smiled, then snuggled into my embrace.
At the Casting Crowns concert last week, God reminded me of this almost faded memory. When the band began the chorus of “Just be Held“, I closed my eyes and began weeping. The reckoning had just begun.
“So when you’re on your knees and answers seem so far away
You’re not alone, stop holding on and just be held
Your world’s not falling apart, it’s falling into place
I’m on the throne, stop holding on and just be held
Just be held, just be held”
At first, it was as if I were back in that hospital room, wrestling to soothe my son who knew not what he wanted or needed. Then I saw the image I referred to in part 1 of this series: the picture of me on God’s lap, but this time, He wasn’t playing with my hair, He was trying to hold me as I kicked and screamed. As I focused on the picture in my head, I remember saying, But God, this is too much! I can’t do this! I could be such a better dad, but instead, I’m alone. I don’t know how to parent these kids by myself. It was a prayer of resignation. This can’t be what you planned for their lives! Then I heard more of the lyrics.
“If your eyes are on the storm
You’ll wonder if I love you still
But if your eyes are on the cross
You’ll know I always have and I always will”
If my eyes are on the storm?!? reminded me of another lesson God taught me during my senior year in college. I was in the middle of a different storm: a crisis of identity, a crisis of pain, a crisis of fear. It was the first time God’d used music to speak directly to me. I was at a Point of Grace concert with three very good friends, but I was very much alone. Scott Krippayne was the opening act for PoG. In his set he sang “Sometimes He Calms the Storm” and I was beside myself. The profound message in the song can be reduced to one line: “Sometimes He calms the storm and other times He calms His child.”
I know it wasn’t an audible conversation with God, but my heart knew what He was saying. I am and have recently been the child fighting against my Daddy as He was trying to comfort and care for me. Abba Father has walked this road with me since birth; He’s always been beside me. Over and over, He’s told me, “…I always [have loved you] and I always will.” I have been so focused on the storm of late: Amy’s death and the endless pain it’s caused my boys.
One of the things dads know well is the unavoidable construct of pain. Pain is instructive: “Don’t do that again.” Pain is a warning: “Move your hand off the hot burner!” Pain is also a reminder of loss: “She loved you very much.” A good dad understands that preventing pain is pointless. Pain will happen. Dads know that if pain was removed, we would destroy ourselves. Dads also know that pain builds character. When a dad looks down the road, he instinctively knows what will cause pain. But we still buy our kids their first bicycle. Why? Are we masochists? No. We know that part of life, part of growing up, part of living, is handling pain. We also know pain makes us stronger.
When Micah’s sedatives wore off in that hospital room, he recognized Daddy was holding him. He stopped fighting and wailing. He was content to just be held. When I stopped to listen for God’s voice at the concert, I realized I’ve been missing His direction for me: sometimes dads need their dads – sometimes a dad is just a grown-up boy who needs to stop fighting Abba and just be held.
…finished in Pt. 4…
Good Grief?!? 