March 9, 2010
At 1:20 am Wyatt Hunter slid out of my womb and into this world.
His foot, no bigger than my pinky nail, signaled his arrival, and with one push, our little boy lay before us in utter silence. The umbilical cord was too fragile to pull, so the midwife gently snipped it, wrapped our little Wyatt in a towel, and left us alone for some time. He could have easily fit in the palm of my hand. But every feature was intact, absolutely perfect in its formation and precision. His eyes were closed, and there was a distinct grin on his face. His hands were folded over his protruding belly, and his feet extended outward in the typical Schroeder duck-footed pose. He reminded me of an old man dozing off on his afternoon nap – so content in the ritual that defined the many years the good Lord had given him under the sun. His skin was the colour of brown clay. And yet he wasn’t incomplete, half sculpted in the Potter’s hands. He was undeniably perfect; He was our little masterpiece.
As my contractions found their voice and evolved from whimpers to gritty roars, I asked the Lord a special request. I wanted this birth to be as magical, albeit sad, as my other deliveries. I didn’t want to take the edge off with drugs and lose my wits; I wanted all my senses intact to honour the life that I carried for 20 weeks. If possible I wanted to look into the little face of my child and tell him that I loved him, that I was his mother, and that I couldn’t wait to see him face-to-face someday again. And how graciously was that request granted to me. Within 10 minutes of my prayer my water broke and the little guy emerged. Was it magical? Indeed it was. To gaze upon this little person, there was no denying the fact that he was fearfully and wonderfully made. His tender Creator had left His fingerprints everywhere – in the curve of his broad shoulders, on his tiny fingernails, and in the grayish blue eyes that hid beneath their lids.
And I realized in that moment that our Wyatt had lived the days set out for him.
He had run the race, and he was now safely home. Some men are giving 90 years or more; our Wyatt was given 14 weeks and 5 days. And it seems by the look of the braided cord that prematurely cut short his life, he lived it up in there. Luther likes to say that Wyatt was just too wild for this world. He needed a one-way ticket to heaven, and he found it by spinning himself into a fatal knot.
And now Wyatt dwells in perfect joy and unending peace.
We’re sure he’s found some killer bungee jumping spots up there already. His cousin Isabelle has probably taken him on a tour of a couple galaxies, and my Gramma has most definitely taught him proper table manners at the table with Jesus. But the image that overrides my sorrow is seeing my son sitting on the Father’s lap, safely at home in His strong embrace.
I don’t know why God took our son so soon from us. I don’t claim to have all, or any, of the answers. What I do know, however, is that we have an unspeakable hope that burns through our teary eyes. We have an inexpressible joy that soothes our heavy hearts. We have heaven to hold onto - a heaven not just for our futures, but a heaven for our today’s. A heaven for this hospital bed on which I lay. And that is enough to carry me through this pain.
My joy is not firstly wrapped in the hope of greeting my Wyatt at heaven’s gates. Nor is it in seeing two stripes on a little stick again.
My hope stands in the person of Jesus, who promises to take me through the deep valleys Himself.
He promises to be my strength when I am too weak to walk... like now. He whispers this knowledge into my ear, and mysteriously that’s enough to still the white-capped waters in my heart. That’s enough for me. He’s enough, He’s enough, He’s more than enough.