Our Little Miracle . . .

"I'll be right back," he said, gently placing the transducer back in its holster and removing his gloves.  We figured he might be going to update the medical charts or something.  Whatever it was, something had caused him to abruptly stop the sonogram, which had been ordered by Amy's regular doctor after several episodes of abnormal bleeding.  We really didn't think much of it.  In fact, Amy grabbed a towel and started wiping the blue gel off her stomach and I began putting on my jacket and stocking cap, thinking that everything must have been normal and a nurse would be coming back in at any time to tell us we were free to go.

About that time the door opened and the doctor returned with two more doctors from the practice.  He removed the transducer from the holster, asked Amy to lay back again, and reapplied the blue gel.  Now I don't know much about the way things work in a medical practice, but when one doctor rounds up the rest of the doctors in the practice to come look at something, there must really be something to see.  

"Whoa," said one of the other doctors.  

Now I don't know much about the way things work in a medical practice, but when a doctor says "whoa," while looking at images of the inside of my wife early in her third trimester, you know there really must be something to see.  What they saw on that screen apparently was the largest of its kind that any of them had ever witnessed.  Located right up next to the placenta was a softball-sized blood clot.  

"You're staying," the doctor said.  

"By 'staying' you mean, like overnight, right?" I asked.

"Nope.  You're staying until the baby's born."

So began our journey.  Amy was immediately checked into the room at Overland Park Regional Hospital, which would become her home for the next six weeks.  It was ordered that she remain in her bed for the majority of the time and could only leave the room in a wheelchair.  

Doctors feared that her body, at some point, would mistake the mass for the baby and go into premature labor in order to get rid of the clot.  To be honest, I'm not sure at the time we truly realized the magnitude of the risk to both mom and baby.  Amy went through several blood transfusions just to try to keep up with the amount of blood she was losing on a regular basis.  We lived on edge most of the time, but all along had faith that God would see us through and that we would have a healthy baby when it was all said and done.  

In the meantime, I was caring for our three older kids at home during those six weeks.  I'll be honest, when it really hit me that Amy would be in the hospital for an extended period of time, I was terrified.  It was enough work raising our 6, 4, and 2-year old with both of us.  But now here I was, thrust into the role of doing everything at home, while also constantly having Amy and our unborn baby on my mind.  

I had prayed the day before this all took place that God would show me how to be a better dad.  This is definitely not what I had in mind.  

Six weeks later, Amy was rushed into surgery after it became apparent that our baby was in serious distress.  On March 3, 2011, my super-hero wife gave birth to Thomas John Giffin.  He was 3 lbs 11oz, and I could fit my wedding ring over his foot and around his ankle, with room to spare.  Aside from a serious case of Jaundice and low oxygen levels, we had a healthy baby boy.  Because he was only 32 weeks in the womb he remained in the NICU at Overland Park Regional for 6 weeks while he grew bigger and stronger.  He remained on oxygen for the duration, and even for the first month he was home with us.  However, after that first month he was just like any other little baby.  He was healthy, happy, and continued to grow.

As I reflect back on those 12 weeks I can see so many ways that God brought us through it.  It was during that time I first realized how much love and support we had from our family, church family, and friends.  It was also during that time that God's faithfulness, strength, and abiding peace became more real to us than they ever had before.  He had worked a miracle in our lives.  The fog had set in and we learned that relying on our low beams and that white line on the outside of the lane really did get us somewhere.  We learned that having the patience to take each step and each moment one at a time would eventually lead us to where HE wanted us to be.  We learned that the One who painted that white line really could be trusted.  

God worked a miracle in our lives and in the life of our precious Thomas.  We just knew that God had an incredible plan for his life.  There had to be a reason he chose to work that miracle.  

So after seeing us through all of that . . . Why?

I Wish . . .

[The following is the message I gave at our son's funeral.  By God's grace, I was able to make it through it.  As you read it, please remember that this was not meant to bring attention to my family or I, but only to glorify our Lord, who has walked with us and shone his light in these darkest of days]

“I wish.”  It’s a simple little phrase, which we learn to use in our vocabulary at a very early age.  We “wish” we could do this or do that.  We “wish” we could have this or have that.  We “wish” things could be a certain way.  Seriously, who hasn’t--at some point--”wished” they had their very own genie in a bottle, who could come out and grant just three wishes.  You see, as humans we tend to long, yearn, desire, and “wish” that things could be different.  That things could be better.  That things didn’t have to be the way they are.  

In the past several days, we all have spent a lot of time “wishing.”  Wishing that it wasn’t us.  Wishing we could be anywhere else other than a hospital, a funeral home, or a cemetery.  Wishing we could be doing anything else other than picking out a casket, purchasing a plot, and planning a service for our baby boy.  Wishing we could be experiencing anything else other than the deepest and most gut-wrenching and heart-stopping pain we have ever felt.  Wishing I could be anywhere else other than right here in the same room with our baby boy in his casket.

We wish we knew what happened.  We wish the autopsy had revealed something, anything.  We wish we would have gone in and checked on him when we heard him whimper for the final time at 4:30am.  We wish we could go back and spend more time with him, play ball with him, and hold him one more time.  We’d give anything for him to wake us up in the middle of the night, interrupt our conversation, yank down our Christmas tree, and drop crayons down our floor vents.  We wish he was still here.  And we wish we knew why he isn’t.  

But you see, the funny thing about wishing is that wishes are usually based on changing a situation or outcome that simply can’t be changed.   Think about it, when we wish for something, it’s typically filled with regret or dissatisfaction with our current situation.  Wishing is for fairy tales.  Wishing is for genies.  Wishing accomplishes nothing more than giving us a false sense of hope that things will be better than our situation currently offers.  Wishing captures that innocent child’s imagination, but it does not--and will not--address life’s darkest and most painful times.  

So we don’t wish--we pray.  Wishing doesn’t address our current situation--faith does.

You see, praying is different than wishing.  Praying is filled with faith, and faith is filled with hope.  Faith is being confident in what we hope for and certain of the things we cannot see.  As we try to figure out how to make sense of what has happened and attempt to navigate life moving forward, we know that we cannot see what God sees.  So we pray.  

We pray that you will come to know what we thought we knew before now, but has only been confirmed:  

“God is taking care of us.  We feel the warmth and security of being enveloped in His loving presence.  Every detail of our life is under His control.  Moreover, everything fits into a pattern for good, to those who love Him and are called according to His design and purpose.
Because the world is an abnormal, fallen condition, we tend to think that chance governs the universe.  Events may seem to occur randomly, with little or no meaning.  People who view the world this way have overlooked one basic fact:  the limitations of our human understanding.  What we know of the world we inhabit is only the tip of the iceberg.  Submerged beneath the surface of the visible world are mysteries too vast for us to comprehend.  If we could only see how close God is to us and how He constantly works on our behalf, we would never again doubt that He is wonderfully caring for us.  This is why we must live by faith, not by sight; trusting in His mysterious, majestic Presence.”***

Losing our precious Thomas has been the most difficult and painful circumstance our family has ever faced.  Yet, at the same time, these have been some of the most peaceful and grace-filled days we have ever experienced as a family.  We want you to know that the source of our faith, the source of our peace, the source of our joy, and the source of our strength is Jesus.  Don’t get me wrong, this hurts.  It’s paralyzing.  We don’t wish this on anyone.  But we pray.  We pray the same prayer for you that Paul prayed for the Ephesians:

“I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.  Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever!  Amen.”  

                                                                                                            - Eph. 3:16-21

As our 8-year-old son, Samuel, said:  “God’s going to do something good out of this.”

***This section was adapted from a devotional book that my wife Amy had been reading.  It’s called “Jesus Calling,” by Sarah Young.  It’s a book of words of encouragement and devotion for every day of the year.  This particular reading was dated December 12, the day our precious Thomas entered heaven.  We read it that evening as we began our first sleepless night.  

When the fog sets in . . .

Fog really is an incredible thing.  I remember my dad explaining fog to me as a young child.  "Fog is just clouds that have sunk down to ground level," he said.  The explanation really was intriguing.  That's crazy!  Something that seemed so far out of reach--a cloud--could actually descend so low that we could drive through it, touch it,  and experience it up close.  We could be in the clouds.  It really was unreal.  It was exciting.

However, as an adult who is trying to get somewhere in a car, fog is a nuisance.  It makes it hard to see where you're going.  It makes it difficult to see the markers--road signs, landmarks, lane markings--which help keep us on track when we're trying to get to our destination.  It simply makes it way more difficult to see where you're going.  You sometimes can't see 10 feet in front of the car, let alone miles down the road.

At the same time, the fog makes you slow down.  It makes you pay way more attention to the here and now.  It makes you accept the fact that you can't see nearly as far down the road as you want to.  It makes you  pay attention to things that you take for granted when you can see clearly.  Seriously, who pays attention to the white line on the outside of the driving lane?  When it's clear out you don't need it.  You can see where the lane ends.  But try driving in the fog without those markings and you see why they were put there.  The fog makes you rely on what's right in front of you in order to get your bearings.  And you just hope that whoever painted that line can be trusted.  You hope they know where the road leads.

Fog can be a scary thing.  It makes me uneasy.  It makes me nervous.  But it also makes me focus.  I have somewhere I know I need to get to, and stopping just isn't an option.  So I slow down.  I look for new markers to help me stay on track.  But I must keep going in this new reality.  It's a journey I haven't chosen, but a journey I must take.  The road I must take is laid out before me.  The fog wasn't part of my plans.  But I must keep going.

On December 12, 2012 (12/12/12) I found my youngest son, Thomas, dead in his crib.  He was almost 2 years old.  The fog sets in.  This is my journey.