not to us

We walked into the radiology department, and it started to sink in:
"Today I could learn that something is terribly wrong with him."

The radiology techs asked me if he'd had a chest x-ray before. 

"Sure.  I think he's had four or five."  I told them that he does best in the little bicycle seat thingy with his arms up around his head, enclosed in a plastic case.

By "best," I mean that's the only way to keep him still for an x-ray.

They ask me why he has to have a chest x-ray, and I tell them that he passes out a lot.

By "a lot," I mean he passes out an average of 4 times/week.

They ask, "Does he lose consciousness?"

I answer, "Yes.  He goes completely unconscious, and he's cyanotic...not just around his mouth but even in his hands and feet.  A month ago, he had a grand mal seizure after one of his spells."

They stare.

"You're so calm!  I have an eight month old, and that sounds terrifying!"

I pause.

"Well, he's not supposed to be alive, so I guess this feels like small potatoes."

And I tell his story.

I tell them how his protective bag of waters ruptured 23 weeks early, leaving him completely vulnerable to the world outside.  I tell them how we were given less than .1% odds for his chance at life outside the womb.  I tell them how I laid in bed for three-and-a-half months. 

I tell them how I went into labor at 24 weeks, and we thought it was over.  I tell them that, at 32 weeks, we discovered that his heart was barely beating and that it was beating extremely irregularly...how he was delivered less than an hour later by a cesarean section that lasted less than 60 seconds.

I look at them, and I say, "He shouldn't be here.  God has given me 15 months with this incredible little boy that I was never supposed to have.  He's given me the joys of watching him smile, hearing him laugh, and holding him tight...joys that I don't deserve.  If God decides that this is all I get, then I will choose to be thankful for what I've been given."

And then I cry.  It hits me.  I mean it.  It's not rhetoric.  It's not lovely words.  It's my life.  It's my faith.  I mean it with all my heart.

I trust God.  Wholly.  Completely.  Without Limit.

Then, they cry.  They tell me that these few minutes have changed the way they look at life.

And I walk out.  Stunned.

Why does God use me?  Why does he think I'm worthy of sharing the hope that comes from trusting in him? 

I'm not worthy.  I don't deserve this privilege.

And so, in one breath, I say, "Thank you, God, for these wonderful results.  Thank you for my healthy, stubborn boy."

And, in the next breath, I say, "Use me.  Use him.  Use her.  Use us.  Whatever you want, whatever you will.  I will trust in you no matter what, so use me.  I will give glory to your name, no matter what fires I have to walk through, so use me.  As long as you're with me, I will go to the ends of the earth, to the ends of my fears, to the ends of my desires, to the end of my life...glorifying you all the way.  I love you, God.  Not because you're good to me, but because you are worthy...simply worthy."

And so I ask you, "Remember how he wasn't supposed to live?"

What a mighty, might God we serve...