I ran to the hospital to meet a two day old baby who would not eat. The nurses asked me to try and give him a bottle. He was so lethargic, the only milk he drank was what dripped from the nipple as I held it in his mouth. The nurse took him away to put a tube down his nose, through which to feed him. He is having drug withdrawal symptoms they said. He needs to be in the NICU. My heart broke for him and I began to pray for this little boy who had yet to receive a name from his parents. He was just "baby boy".
I prayed fervently for "Baby Boy" for days. I called the NICU for updates. Then, one day, I told God "he is a PERSON. He needs a name. Please God give me a name to call out to you." I found the name Ezekiel, which means "God strengthens". This baby had lost a whole pound due to his withdrawal symptoms. He still was not eating. He needed God to strengthen him. And so I prayed for "Ezekiel".
Immediately, his condition improved. He began taking feedings by mouth. His symptoms began to fade. And then they called me one day. "His parents have named him. He has a relative that will take him. We don't need you after all." I was disappointed, but I thought that maybe God wanted me in his life just long enough to have someone interceding for him. "That's that," I thought.
My phone rang. "That relative can't handle him. Do you still want him?" And so I rushed to the hospital once more. And this time I didn't leave without him in my arms. It's a strange sensation. Leaving a hospital with someone else's baby cradled in your arms. Or it felt like someone else's baby then. I kept waiting for a nurse to chase me down and tell me there had been a mistake; that I couldn't actually take home a baby that didn't belong to me. We made it to my car, however, and drove away. Me and a baby boy in a pink car seat.
My heart grieved for all his parents were missing. Babies grow so swiftly, and they were missing it! Every week I would bring him to a cold, impersonal office to visit these people to whom he was supposed to belong. They would coo and ooh and aah over him, but they did not know him really. They didn't understand that he was fussing because he was unaccustomed to being cradled on that side since I'm left handed. They didn't know that he loved baths and hated to be burped. How is he theirs?
I tried to hold myself apart. I really did. I did my best to be hands off when he was with his family; giving them the chance to bond with him. He's theirs after all. But babies are so intoxicating. I fell in love anyway. I prepared myself for the eventual heartache of having to return him to his rightful family. I even prayed for them to get better so they could all be reunited, and I meant it! But they didn't get better. And my heart broke for him.
He grew into a happy baby in those 716 days. He reached for me when I tried to give him to his parents at those weekly visits. He didn't know these people. I could tell it was getting to them when his mother tossed him into my arms; so annoyed was she that we had to end the visit early because he wouldn't stop crying for me. "He's spoiled. You should put him in day care." I cried that day. Not for me, but for him. "It's not his fault that you're a stranger to him," I wanted to scream! Instead, I muttered something apologetic about him being tired, and I bundled up my baby and left.
Yes, that's when it started. He was MY baby. Not theirs. But I didn't dare say it out loud. His relative (who decided not to take him) asked to house him over the holidays. I reluctantly agreed. A drug exposed baby is a difficult undertaking and I was tired. I sent him to their home, outwardly hoping they would get a taste of what it feels like to be whole and that it would motivate them. Inwardly, I was terrified it would work.
The holidays were over and I went to pick him up at a meeting spot we had arranged. They drove up and the baby was buckled into the car seat, but the car seat was not buckled into the car. The baby, seat and all, was lying on his side. I was livid. How dare they be so careless and endanger MY baby! There it was again. Not my baby. Their baby. No, MY baby. It didn't matter. The holiday together changed nothing. I talked to his parents. I encouraged them. I prayed for them, but that downward spiral is something only Jesus can fix and only from the inside out. So I prayed for them. I still do.
The time came when everyone involved had to come to face the fact that this child (and his siblings) need stability, security and a loving, safe home. It seemed highly unlikely that his parents would ever be able to provide these basic things for their children. So the court made the difficult decision to terminate the parents' rights to their children thus making them free for adoption. We were asked if we would consider adopting. Just try and take this child away from me! Just. You. Try.
A lot can change in 716 days. Despite my efforts to prevent it, my heart had been expecting. 716 days ago, my heart became pregnant with hope. Today it gave birth. The most difficult pregnancy I have ever experienced has finally come to fruition and produced a SON. His name is Ezekiel and he is with his rightful family. 716 days ago I met a baby. Today, by the grace of God, he is MY baby.
