What can I say?

I love language. It excites me to think of new ways to say old things and I love it when old ways of saying things are the most clear, concise... the best. So there aren't many times when words elude me. Occasionally there are times when I say it does, but then I typically follow it up with explanations and... well, words.

This time is different. Every time I hold my son, something happens to me and my brain just shuts off. There aren't words, there aren't evaluations, there aren't even thoughts, there is just him. This little miracle. And even as I read that (he's a miracle) it sounds so trite and overused, which makes me wonder (in the state I'm in) if that might be one of those old sayings that is most concise and clear.

So I won't try and tell you how I've felt. What I do want to do is put down some of the ways this whole experience has started to impact my faith. There was a lot of really ugly stuff that came out in the process of my little man being born. I questioned things like why we should pray if the most urgent prayers of the day and moment (in the midst of a grueling 37 hour labor and a very long sleepless night) go unanswered. I wondered what I was supposed to do when what seemed like a hopeless situation truly did get worse, and I didn't have any of the "peace that passes understanding" that was supposed to abide when I'm not anxious and I ask God.

I didn't get answers to those questions. There was a moment - at about 3:57 in the morning after 9 hours of sleep in the last 4 days when the baby is not crying but screaming like his ass was on fire - when I felt like God was enjoying my misery. I thought of God as the cosmic drill seargent, only caring about how He can whip me into shape and make me a good soldier.

He never answered those questions for me. He didn't swoop down and wrap me in His cosmic arms and quote Jeremiah 29:11 into my ear and tell me that all things were going to be beautiful. He continually put me into situations where my son was crying, screaming, peeing, yelling, eating, and doing every single one of the things that I desperately didn't want him to do at the time. And I had to be there to hold him, clean him, feed him, comfort him, console him, and try to get him to sleep. And with bleary eyes in my mother-in-law's house (we're staying for awhile to get adjusted to being parents) I just held this little spastic person who will grow up to make choices and somehow, for better or worse, leave his mark on the world. I love him so much... the speechless kind of love that even now brings tears to my eyes... The kind of love that doesn't make rational sense and makes me not want to make sense ever again... the kind of love that finds me in a hospital room pleading with God not to let me make any mistakes with someone so wonderful and pure. I love this kid absolutely more than I ever knew I could feel or do anything. Up to this point in my life, Jackson David is the sum total of all the good that's come from me.

And at this very moment I am nothing more to him than a diaper changer. I am a bottle holding, binky replacing, blanket wrapping, butt wiping force of nature that is more blurry shape than anything else. He has no way to comprehend that I love him. He doesn't even have a way to comprehend anything but whether or not he's in a messy diaper. I want him to look at me and know, "my dad loves me and he'd do anything for me." But he doesn't think that. No where near that and he won't for many many many years to come. When I have to change his diaper and he screams bloody murder because he's cold... all he wants is to be covered up, and he knows I'm the blurry guy whose not letting him be warm.

So I realized that I want God to be my problem solving, crisis ending dream guy who swoops in and saves the day. When one of those things happens, I shout of his love. But when they don't, I question. The reality seems to be, God's up there with his hand under my chin, trying to burp this convulsing little heap of a man whose barely a week old on the eternal calendar. I can't comprehend that kind of thing. But every once in awhile I get a glimpse of it.

So I sit in my mother-in-laws bedroom typing away. My little man is covered up in a receiving blanket in this little baby papasan chair trying to sleep as dad pecks away. My prayer is that someday he'll have the ability to understand why I have done the sometimes crazy things I do... because I love him.

God still does things I don't like. But I guess that's his prerogative. I wasn't given the option of running the universe. More than anything it bothers me that I'm still so immature in my faith. It bothers me that I still so easily equate physical comfort and well being with God's blessing (especially in light of reading the blog about the trip to Africa). But it helps me to think of Him up there, desperately wanting me to get it. Desperately wanting me to see that there's love wrapped everywhere. The problem isn't with His presentation. The problem is with my perception.

God, more times than not I don't get it. I hate that feeling when I rant and rave and toss accusations at you, and then come back a day later sheepishly having to admit that you were right all along and you knew what you were doing. Thank you for knowing what you are doing. Forgive me for those times when I speak foolishly. Thank you for my son. Thank you for letting me see you in Him. God, there aren't words. In the days and weeks and years to come, may I find more moments where words aren't enough to convey what I want to say to you. Thank you for your grace. Take care of this little guy. Take care of his baby too.