I Prayed for This Child

Last Sunday, on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, we dedicated our son, Jude, to the Lord. I thought it was an appropriate day for such a dedication, in that we acknowledge the evil, turmoil, and disaster that exist in the world; recognize its capacity to take us when we least expect it; and nevertheless, commit our lives and the lives of our children to the purposes of God and to His Kingdom. 

I was in college when the twin towers were struck in New York City, and a nation was left standing with mouths gaping open, unable to undo what had been done. I spoke with my mom on the phone several times that day, as our campus was called to prayer, as the cars lined up at gas station and prices nearly tripled because of our new conflict with the middle east, and as all security that had been so easily taken for granted was breeched leaving us all wondering what would happen next. 

The tragedy that struck caused us all to reach out to our families, wishing we could bring everyone we love into one place and hold tightly to make sure that we weren’t affected. Mom and I, separated only by a few hours, commented that we seemed so far away. Yet we were connected, as families across the United States were, by the broadcasted news that had us all glued to our televisions. Unanswered questions loomed in our minds, but we found comfort knowing that our ‘brood’ was at least for the moment, out of harm’s way.

While we were getting ready for service last week, the tv was on again, this time allowing homes across the country to join other families in breathtaking memorial. This time, because I know loss all too well, my compassion for those who lost loved ones in 9/11 was greater. Because every name read represented someone’s mom, someone’s dad, someone’s brother, someone’s sister, someone’s son, who was taken in a ‘suddenly’ moment, never to return. 

On the morning that I was to dedicate my son in ceremony, there was a hole in my heart. I wanted to sit on the phone with my mom again, share the details of what was going on and feel safe. I wanted her here, to stand behind me as Jude’s grammy Tammy, to be a part of this new phase of my life. 

The absence I felt and the broken voices of loved ones that read names of the 9/11 fallen were all too common. Most of us walk around that way: pinned together, sewed up remnants, full but not whole...perplexed but not crushed, as the Scripture says.

I stood at the front altar of my Dad’s church and came to a striking realization. With or without my mom, my life’s purpose will go on. She was able to finish her race; but as I held my sweet baby, dressed in pristine white with adorable baby oxfords, I accepted that my race has only begun. The calling of a mother is to commit wholeheartedly, in the face of life’s adversity, to raising her child in the fear and admonition of the Lord. To instill principles, and common sense, and good manners; to feed, and guide, and protect; to insulate, but not isolate; to discipline without breaking, and love them into their full potential. I have a grand responsibility. With or without my own mom, I am one. And I’m equipped with everything I need to fulfill my calling.

After the service, which in all honesty was somewhat of a blur in light of that stark revelation, I took Jude home and changed his clothes (and promised him I’d never make him wear that outfit again).

I prayed, as Hanah did in the first chapter of I Samuel, 

"As surely as you live, my LORD, I am the woman who stood here praying. I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the LORD. For his whole life he will be given over to the LORD." 

Oddly enough, we faced the hardest week to date in Jude’s little life, right after his dedication on Sunday. On Wednesday, he was diagnosed with a respiratory virus and admitted to the hospital in Rolla, MO. I was working the Joyce Meyer Women’s Convention in St. Louis, and he was staying behind with my brother and sister-in-law. Once we got the news, I had to try to figure out a way to get to my baby.

A guy that was encouraging me as I left said, “I’m 28 years old, and when I’m sick, I still want my mom.” Yeah, tell me about it...

Funny enough, as desperate as I am for my mom during so many of my day-in, day-out moments, this was a turning point in my journey. On this particular September evening, I was only desperate for my son.

My dad came to get me, and I was able to meet them all at the hospital. My amazing family, precious visitors, great balloons, and an excellent staff, made the experience much more palatable. But when everything was said and done, it was me and Jude, my precious baby with a plastic hospital id around his tiny ankle.

I sat in that hospital bed all night long, and watched as he was lying there, breath getting lighter and easier after each treatment, feeling overwhelmingly helpless. If I could have taken his pain, I would have. If I could have traded him places, I would have. If I would have been subject to lay on that uncomfortable chair for the rest of my years just to know that he would never again have to have his blood drawn or an IV put in, I would do it in a heartbeat.

But I suppose that was the point of the ceremony last Sunday. Dedicating our son to God didn’t mean that he would never face any difficulty or any illness or any heartache. Unfortunately, parents can’t prevent everything that befalls a growing child. But instead of struggling to prevent, we can surrender to peace, knowing that our love, our presence, and our prayers will see them through to the other side.

Jude is much better now. He’s sleeping, even as I type, and his breathing isn’t labored, and his chest is clear.  And my prayer is the same: I give him to the Lord.