A Story of Gratitude

This is a story of a great gift, wrapped and packaged in an unexpected way.

It’s a story of gratitude.  It’s also a story of pain.  The two often go together. 

This is the story of our son Griffin…    

Griffin was born October 9, 2014.

It was exciting and fast.  My wife Josie’s water broke at 5:15 in the morning and Griff was born at 7:25.  Josie has never been in the habit of wasting time.  We welcomed Griff like our two other boys—with tears, laughter, joy, and lots of pictures.  We called family and friends telling them of our great news.  The highlight of that morning was having our two older boys visit and meet Griffin for the first time.  They were a bit disappointed it wasn’t a girl, but their excitement outweighed any lingering disappointment.  They smiled proudly as they took turns holding Griff, kissing his forehead.  Things felt right.  Things felt good.  Three boys.  My three sons.  This was our family.  This was my family.  Finally complete.    

About two hours after Griffin was born, just after our boys left with my mom, a team of doctors came in the room.  I was standing next to Josie as she sat in bed holding Griff in her arms.  The doctors formed a semi-circle around the bed and we immediately sensed a tone of seriousness in their demeanor.  Something was off.  They seemed tense.  Their tone didn’t fit our tone at all.  We were elated, enjoying the emotional high of a new child.  The next sentence would change our lives.  It was a sentence I never could have predicted or expected.

Mac and Josie, we think that Griffin is exhibiting characteristics consistent with Down syndrome. 

I can’t really explain that moment.  It’s still a bit surreal. 

The main thing I felt in that moment was helpless.  Helpless and scared. 

I looked down at Josie as she looked down at Griffin with disbelief.  She looked up at me and I saw the same thing in her eyes—helplessness and fear mixed with absolute shock.  I tried to stay strong, but the room started spinning—the way it does when you truly are helpless and scared, when things are happening to you rather than because of you.        

Are you sure?  We asked.    

We are going to run some tests.  And I hope I am wrong, but I don’t think I am wrong.  Our doctor responded. 

We had chosen our doctor because he was good at what he did.  He was the best.  In that moment, I wanted him to be wrong.  I wanted him to suck at his job.  But as he began to explain several of the characteristics he noticed with Griffin, I knew he was right.  I knew.  They could run their tests, but I knew.  Our son had Down syndrome. 

I don’t cry much. 

I am more a thinker than a feeler. 

I think.  Then what I think informs what I feel.  That’s how I like it to work. 

But, in this particular moment, my thinking simply couldn’t keep up with my feeling.  Over the next couple days, I found myself crying…a lot.  Questions and uncertainties made it hard to breath.  I felt incredibly inadequate.  Like, I am not a patient person at all.  And now I have a child that is going to require incredible patience.  I am not the best with the toddler stage.  Now I have a child that will be toddler-like for the rest of his life.  I am an independent person.  Now I have a child that will likely be dependent on me for the rest of his life.  Will Josie and I ever get to be empty nesters?  How long will Griffin live?  What’s his life expectancy?  Like, no parent should have to bury a child, but now this seems like a plausible outcome.  Each question felt like another brick I was being asked to hold.  And I knew my strength was giving out.  The weight felt crushing. 

The odd thing is that these questions felt most overbearing when I was alone.  Not just alone, but more specifically, apart from Griffin.  Whenever I held Griffin in my arms, these questions no longer felt so heavy.  It was as if Down syndrome in the abstract was overwhelming and scary, but in the concrete – actually holding Griffin in my arms, looking into his eyes – the fear began to vanish.  This is my son.  And he is deeply loved. 

The last several months have been full of doctor’s appointments and tests. 

A child with Down syndrome often has a number of physiological issues—eyes, ears, thyroid, digestion, etc.  The biggest one is the heart.  Many infants with Down syndrome often require open-heart surgery.  In a number of ways, we have been blessed.  While Griffin has a few minor issues with his heart, none of them seem to require immediate attention, let alone open-heart surgery.  While Griffin initially failed his hearing test in one ear, he passed the same test a week later.  Pretty much every major physiological issue he could have, he doesn’t have with any degree of severity at this point in time.  For that we are incredibly grateful. We are also grateful for the outpouring of love from family and friends.  We feel supported daily. 

Questions still remain. 

Like, why did this happen to us?

There is no genetic or physiological variable that explains why a child is born with Down syndrome.  God, why did you allow this?  We prayed consistently from the moment Josie found out she was pregnant that this would be a healthy pregnancy and that this child would grow and develop in all the right ways.

I’ve noticed that when people experience challenges, setbacks, or tragedies in life, they typically respond relationally to God in one of two ways—they either run away from God or run toward God.  They either shake their fists at God in anger or they find comfort in his embrace.  We are choosing to run toward God—to lean into him, trust him, and walk more closely with him.

The other day Josie was praying. 

She sensed God asking her to go back to that moment in the hospital when we found out that Griffin had Down syndrome—that moment when we were handed a “problem,” a “diagnosis,” a “disability,” that moment when we felt completely helpless.  As she remembered that moment, God revealed his presence and love, his goodness and grace.  While we felt alone, God was present all along.   Josie described to me how God put his arms around us as the doctor’s told us Griffin’s diagnosis.  And then he began to whisper words of love and encouragement to us.  This is my gift to you—a gift to cherish and embrace.  Enjoy unwrapping him day by day as you delight in getting to know him.  Griffin is fearfully and wonderfully made.  He will bring you deep joy.  You will experience great love.  As I love you, I want you to love this child.  You are not alone.  I will be with you.   

None of us are alone, ever.  We may sometimes think we are alone and helpless, but we are not.  God is with us.  Life is difficult.  I know that full well.  Life can beat you up and push you down.  Negative circumstances and events often contain messages counter to God’s love, mercy, and grace.  And, if internalized, leave you broken and frail, embittered and resentful.  This is why it is so important to create space in your life to acknowledge your pain in God’s presence—giving him the opportunity to communicate the truth of who he is, who you are, and his presence in your life.

I suspect that we will never know why this happened to us.

Why were we given a child with Down syndrome?  Life is arbitrary and random.  But God is not.  His love is constant and faithful.  And it’s all we need.