Shattered Prayers: The Testing of a Father's Faith

Savior.

1

It’s a Friday evening in winter. A bloody sky looms over black mountains. Frost clings to my car windows, but it’s warm inside as I drive home from my law firm. I loosen my tie; I’m on my way to meet Erin, my wife. We’ll go to dinner—probably to Chili’s, where we’ll drink margaritas. She’ll eat grilled chicken, and I’ll eat shrimp. Then we’ll go to the movie theater downtown, by the river.

I’m listening to National Public Radio as I drive. The story is about people who lost their jobs during the recession. One woman says her husband used to make a good living in construction but now the bank is foreclosing on their home, and she doesn’t know how to tell their children.

I’ve always been a good person; I’ve always gone to church and read my Bible, she says, her voice cracking. I don’t understand how God could let this happen to me.

There’s something inhuman about foreclosing on someone’s home during the holidays, and I can’t imagine how it would feel to see your children packing their toys in the back of the station wagon and knowing you were never coming back to the place you’d called home. The woman’s story is sad, the opposite of a Christmas miracle. And yet I don’t quite understand what she means when she says she doesn’t understand how God could let this happen to her. The Bible is full of stories about people suffering—Job comes to mind, and Jesus. The day before the woman’s husband lost his job, the world was full of suffering, and presumably she didn’t doubt God then. So why should she doubt now? It’s irrational. Did she think she was exempt?

Suffering is obviously unpleasant. But it doesn’t really conflict with the claims of Christianity. Why is there suffering in the world? Because people rejected God and cut themselves off from the source of life and goodness. Why doesn’t God fix it? He is fixing it. Why doesn’t he fix it now? God’s ways are not our ways. His timing is different than ours, and he wants to see if we’ll be patient, if we’ll have faith.

I turn off the radio as I pull into the garage of our five-bedroom home. Maybe such a large house is a bit much for only two people, but we both make good money practicing law, so we can afford it, and real estate was cheap when we bought the house during the Great Recession. Plus, we wanted a place that could fit a family. Erin eventually wants four kids, but so far, it’s just us, a Boston terrier named Duke, and a pug named Buster (not very original names, I know).

The dogs greet me at the door with unreasonable exuberance. I pause a moment to scratch behind their ears, feeling grateful for how well my life is going. I attribute it to God’s grace. I haven’t always made the best decisions. I don’t deserve to have things go so well. Even in law school, I kind of messed around and jeopardized my prospects. But I landed a good job at a solid firm in my hometown, Reno. When layoffs occurred because of the recession, my career went untouched. I’m on track to make partner. I’m paying off my law school student loans. Life is unfolding as advertised.

I guess I have an atypically pleasant life. I won’t win any comparison contests—I’m not the best looking or smartest or most successful or even the most faithful Christian. But things always seem to work out for me. My dad, who is not a Christian, says God loves some people more than others. I think that’s completely wrong … but it does seem like God has made my life easier than most. Even when problems arise (as they do now and then) they resolve soon enough, and things return to normal. Life never gets too far out of control, and I feel both glad and guilty about that. My upper-middle class success story is like a long, boring vacation: not very exciting, but I don’t want it to end.

Erin is waiting for me in the dimly lit living room. She’s pretty, tall, and athletically slender with long brown hair. She’s wearing the dark pencil skirt and fitted red blouse that her coworkers teasingly call her sexy secretary outfit. She looks dazed, and her eyes are wide. I wonder whether I’ve done something to make her upset, but she doesn’t get upset very often and I can’t think of anything. Erin is kind and patient in addition to being easygoing.

Kenny, she says, I’m pregnant.

The blood drains from my face and my stomach does a barrel roll. Erin and I slowly walk toward each other and hug, but I don’t squeeze too hard. I’m already afraid of damaging the tiny liquid jewel in her stomach. Also, my arms feel weak. I need to lie down. I fall back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. My skin feels hot, and Erin asks if I’m okay.

I need a beer, I say. We get in the car and I drive slowly, trying not to brake too hard or turn too sharply. I’m in a daze, thinking about the baby and not paying attention to where I’m going, so I forget to stop at Chili’s; we go to Mimi’s instead. As we’re walking in, I point out the curb to Erin so she won’t trip and fall.

I’m pregnant, not disabled, she tells me with an annoyed expression.

Sorry, I say. I’m just a little afraid.

Erin softens as she puts her arm around me, and she tells me she’s glad to see my fatherly instincts kicking in so quickly.

While we wait for our food, we call friends and family to tell them the news. I quickly learn that there’s nothing much other people say except congratulations! I was hoping that on this momentous occasion people would spontaneously impart deep wisdom about life and parenthood. But maybe the wisdom is in the fact that they don’t have anything to say—there’s a time to give advice and a time to refrain, and the wise will know the difference.

I’m happy, in theory. But my stomach is full of butterflies, and I’m not hungry. I gulp my beer down quickly, but it doesn’t help. It feels like this new soul in Erin’s belly is a delicate organ, connected directly to me, and what I sense through it is a vast universe—cold and full of danger.

I wake to a bright, clear morning. Last night’s fear has passed. My appetite is back, and I polish off toast, sausage, eggs, and coffee. After breakfast, I open a college savings account for the baby. My parents paid for my undergraduate education, and I plan to do the same for my children. I know not everyone can pay for their kids to go to college, but one of the plus sides of being a lawyer is that I make enough to do so if I start planning now. The right education is like a key to a kingdom—it gives you control over your life. When I graduated from Duke Law, all the best law firms in Reno wanted to interview me, and several quickly offered me jobs. This was gratifying on many levels, and I’m going to do everything I can to ensure my kids have the same opportunities. Of course, they don’t have to be lawyers; they can be whatever they want. I just want them to live up to their potential. Everyone’s potential is great. But, of course, I think my kids’ potential will be especially great. My dad is always saying my kids will have great genes, that they will cost Erin and I a fortune in tuition. That’s fine. That’s the point of making money, isn’t it—helping your children live a full life?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m just storing up treasure on earth, where moth and rust can destroy. Jesus says wherever you store your treasure, there your heart will be also. And so by having a family and saving money, aren’t I tying myself more and more to this life and making it harder to invest in the one to come? Perhaps I should be putting more of my treasure in heaven, but I’m not sure how to do that and at the same time provide for this child of mine who will be born here on earth.

Erin doesn’t worry about money, but she has her own work to do to get ready for the baby. She’s been taking prenatal vitamins ever since we started trying to have a baby. Now she stops drinking alcohol and caffeine, and she starts watching her diet after she reads that the baby is eating whatever she’s eating. She’s also supposed to avoid vigorous physical activity, which is hard for her because she’s always been an athlete. The rules go on and on, but she’s doing everything she can to protect the baby’s health, and I’m proud of her for being so responsible and taking it all in stride.

And of course, there’s also the spiritual side of things. I know that unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it. So every night I pray for the child, for its body and soul.

Five months into the pregnancy, we visit the gynecologist. She’s wearing blue scrubs and has a bun of blond hair. She came highly recommended, and I can see why: She’s smart, competent, and has a sense of humor. After spreading translucent gel on Erin’s belly, she begins to rub her stomach with the transducer, which then casts a Doppler-radar version of Erin’s womb onto a screen.

See that? she asks, circling a dot protruding from the baby’s body. That’s his penis.

Really? I ask.

Don’t worry, she replies. It will get bigger.

Erin and I take just a moment to smile at each other in celebration of our baby’s boyhood. Then the gynecologist pushes the transducer deeper into Erin’s abdomen. It looks like it hurts. I hope it doesn’t harm the baby, but I’m sure the gynecologist knows what she’s doing.

An image like a cantaloupe appears.

This is the top of his head, she says. Her voice becomes abstracted, as if she’s focusing on something besides talking: I’m looking at its shape and structure.

At this point in the pregnancy, I would be able to see severe brain problems, she narrates. I stop breathing.

Everything looks good.

I exhale.

She manipulates Erin’s stomach and drags the transducer to a different position.

This is the face, and I’m looking for a cleft lip, she says. But I’m not seeing one.

I didn’t realize the ultrasound was going to include a detailed tour of our baby’s possible birth defects.

Say cheese! the gynecologist says to the baby, and the machine captures an image of his face. He looks like my side of the family—thin lips, heavy cheeks, prominent forehead, fleshy nostrils. Looking at him makes my heart expand. He’s a handsome little boy with a big, beautiful noggin. The doctor shifts the image.

I’m now looking at the spine, she says, taking some digital measurements. I need to make sure the bones are aligned and that the skin covers the spine at the back.

It never occurred to me that a baby’s skin might fail to cover the spine. My throat constricts.

All good there. Next we’re going to look at the abdominal wall to make sure all of his internal organs are where they’re supposed to be.

Silence.

Looks good, she says. Now for the heart.

Erin grips my hand.

I’m seeing four chambers, which is good. I have to measure the atria and the ventricles to make sure they’re the same size.

She does a calculation, and I wait for the verdict.

Size is good. Also, I need to make sure the valves open and close properly.

Will this never end?

Checking now to make sure both kidneys are there … check. Oh! Look at that! the doctor exclaims. She turns and smiles at us. He just peed.

In the parking lot, Erin and I look at each other and laugh nervously.

That was stressful, I say.

At least he’s healthy, Erin says.

Yeah, thank God. I didn’t know there were so many things that could go wrong.

I once told a friend in college that I didn’t want to have children because I didn’t want to expose them to all the problems and pain in the world. My friend told me she disagreed with me, but more importantly that God disagreed with me.

What do you mean? I asked. Isn’t it more compassionate to spare a person all that suffering?

Maybe, she said. But that’s what God did when he put us here, so he must have thought it was worth the risk.

One morning I ask Erin, What do you think about the name Judah?

Judah was the first member of the royal Jewish tribe. He tried to keep his brothers from selling Joseph as a slave. He also made some colorful mistakes. To me, the name suggests greatness but acknowledges human frailty.

Erin is ambivalent. I also like Leo and Felix, but those names don’t seem