Surprise, Surprise!

It is midnight. In the western hemisphere children are sleeping. Lullabies have been sung. Prayers said. I am just settling down for a short winter’s nap when down the hall comes the sound of muffled footsteps. Slowly they draw near.

            Burglars?

            In that no-man’s-land between consciousness and sleep, the worst becomes the possible. Do I reach for the light switch? Do I reach for the phone? In the quietness, I can hear my heart beating and I’m wide awake.

            Silently our door swings open.

            In the soft glow of a nightlight stands a lone figure. He is about three feet tall and…smiling around his soother. His name is Jeffrey Paul. A pillow hangs like his sister’s doll from his left hand, from his right—a pail of Lego. For a two-year-old who can’t spell schedule, it is time to play.

            “Come,” I whisper.

            Setting down the pail, he clutches the pillow and climbs in. Putting one arm across my chest, he lets out an excited squeak.

             “Daddy, I afwaid,” he says.

            Ah, Jeff, I wouldn’t trade you for all the beans in Boston. But, I’m ashamed to say, it wasn’t always this way…

            Date: September 30, 1988.

            Location: The dinner table.

            “Honey, I think...um...well I think I just might be...uh, pregnant.” My wife was talking with my mouth full. Resisting a choking reflex, I took a quick drink, swallowed the potatoes and calmly responded, “WHAT? THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE! RACHAEL IS THREE DAYS OLD!”

            “Three months old,” she corrected me.

            “But it can’t be. You’re joking, aren’t you? Ha, you’re joking.” I looked at her closely. She wasn’t joking. Husbands know these things.

            “I was just starting to feel like I could get up in the morning....” Her words were distant. I stabbed another potato. Hard. “Three kids in three years!” Her words were getting closer. “And I was looking forward to some things: sleep, peace—even holidays.”

            Date: June 29, 1989.

            Location: Maternity ward, local hospital.

            Thirty-three weeks had passed since our dinner table conversation. Gathered with us to witness this most private of events was the obstetrician, the pediatrician, the anesthesiologist, the janitor, the janitor’s under-study, the taxi driver and three pre-med students. But we really didn’t notice. You see, Jeffrey Paul had just been born. He came into the world much like our other two, but you didn’t need a grade eight education to determine he would be very different. From week one Jeffrey let us know, long into the night, that he was not pleased to be here. No, this was not his decision, and someone else should pay.

            His whimper could melt your heart, but his piercing howl could peel wallpaper. “He’s colicky,” explained my wife. “I was when I was his age, and your mother says you were, too.” Having access to this information did not help.

            By the time he learned to use a soother, another problem had arisen: Jeffrey was—well—aggressive. Some would call him strong-willed. Impossible even. If he wanted something, he would stop a parade to get it. This became frighteningly evident long before the day we stood in a cafeteria line and watched him reach out and hit a total stranger—perhaps for the sheer joy of watching her bend over to rub her knee.

             “Do you suppose we got the wrong one?” I ventured that night. “You know, sometimes the baskets get swapped.”

            “Naw,” my wife responded. “He’s too much like you.”

            She was right.

            Born of parents who were beginning to resemble Abraham and Sarah (my parents were cashing pension checks to pay maternity bills), I was politely referred to as the caboose. An after-thought. A mistake. But I never heard those words from them. Instead, I heard words like, “I love you” and “I don’t know what I would do without you.” And, just as importantly, I was shown that love. I was loved, just like the rest.

            And so, little Jeffrey, it will be with you. Not because it’s all I know, or because it’s the noble thing. But because God’s grace always accompanies life’s surprises. And because it’s true: I can’t imagine life without you. Life without your “Wock me, Dad.” Life without your smile.

            But now it’s time for bed. Jeffrey picks up his Lego. I gather his pillow and we head for the crib. “Goodnight, Jeff, I love you.”

            “Lub you, too,” he says. Ah, these are great days.

            Though I do not know it yet, this boy will turn out to be one of God’s greatest gifts to me. A happy, joy-filled, action-packed reminder that God knows what He’s doing. That He gives His best gifts where He finds the vessels empty enough to receive them.

            Back in bed I drift off again, when down the hall comes the sound of muffled footsteps. Slowly they draw near. Burglars? I don’t think so.     

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