The Weight of 10,000 Sons

I am the son of a miracle child and the father of two. My father is an only son, I am an only son, and my son is an only son. And if my father’s legacy was just a living, breathing slap in the face of abortion, that would be enough. But he’s not merely a good reason to avoid child sacrifice; he’s also a godly example for all men to follow (you can subscribe to his newsletter here). And God has used him mightily in the world to this day. I can’t say the same for myself, but I pray my son has two-fold the godliness and impact of his granddad and his great granddads.

The miracle of the males I’m blessed to be surrounded by isn’t what I want to discuss today, however. That will come later. What I want to discuss is the weight of seeing my son live, the miracle he is, and watching him grow. Because, you see, I know many men who have lost sons. I know men who’ve lost their only son. Who lost more than one. Who don’t know if their child was a son or daughter because they lost them too early. I know men who have more sons in heaven than they do daughters in their arms. And as I look into the eyes of my son, the weight of the knowledge that I get to look into his eyes right now, blinking, finding mine, his hands looking for fingers to hold, is crushing.

Yes, I’ve asked God why He chose to allow Elias to live and others’ sons to die. I am blessed beyond all measure, with my daughter and my son, and I could ask the same question about my daughter. But that’s where the difference between my daughter and my son comes into play.

See, my daughter is a beautiful, bright, hilarious, Carolina girlie girl through and through. She loves pink everything and running around barefoot outside as soon as there’s a tinge of warmth in the air. And she loves Jesus and the Bible even at almost four years old, although I don’t think she quite understands the value of either in her life yet. She was born with some blood sugar and oxygen issues, along with other birth complications, but nothing compared to what her brother went through.

To keep it short, Elias didn’t have enough blood to be alive, nor enough red blood cells in the blood he did have. The doctors really never made sense of his living and breathing, and that’s just the two primary issues he had. There’s a massive list of other issues he was born with that contribute to an estimated .2-.5% survival probability with the NICU’s intervention. Even then, they don’t know how he’s still with us.

So when I call Elias a miracle child - a baby boy with a beautiful smile who loves his momma but medical science can’t explain - I’m not being hyperbolic. His life is an act of God.

The reality is, without divine intervention, he’d be like many of yours: with God but not forgotten.

How do I process that? How do you process having a son you can’t hold? I don’t know how to answer those questions. And as well written as this letter is, it’s still an awkward mess of thoughts I can’t really articulate as well as the topic deserves. Here’s what I can do, though. I can share with you how I’m handling the weight of 10,000 sons being gone while mine is here beside me. And I mean no disrespect. I’m just sorry for you fathers who will never be able to hold the sons you’ve lost until eternity, if then. Maybe how I’m processing the honor of sharing my son’s life with him will help in some way? Or maybe some of you will take this as insensitive, I don’t know. I can only share how God has led my heart and let Him do the rest.

I will both allow and encourage my son to be a boy. If there’s anything I’ve learned about the 21st-century world, it’s that it won’t like Elias merely for being male. Well, tough crap, world. He’s going to be boisterous. He’s going to play rough. He’s going to be wild. He’s going to be strong. He’s not going to sit still. And he’s going to do so with confidence. And I’m going to encourage that so far as it’s not sinful. I will be that Dad. He will be that son.

I will both allow and encourage my son to be a man. The last thing the 21st-century world wants my boy to be is a man. A real man. A rub-some-dirt-in-it man. A man who doesn’t allow loud women to lord over him. An oaken man of ideals if not stature. A man who loves his momma and sister more than any woman until he finds a woman better than both to marry. A man who apologizes only for what he does wrong, not for being what he is: a monster who knows how to control it.

I will both allow and encourage my son to be godly. My son has already proven he’s braver than any man I’ve ever known. His story is evidence of that. Not every man crawls away from a battle like he fought with such a clear sense of optimism. So I’ll direct that survivor’s will and instinct, as best I can, into the Savior’s arms. Elias’ namesake is Elijah. His will to live can only be tamed by the One who gave him life. And I’ll do my best to keep up and guide Elias with and to God’s Word.

None of these allowances and encouragements ensures a perfect son, and I will not allow or encourage him perfectly. And I know my son will rebel. He is my son, after all. But I carry a weight knowing how blessed I am to actually raise him.

It’s not lost on me, as I hope I’ve conveyed, how much God has placed in my hands to steward, with my son andmy daughter. And that’s what I pray his mother and I do: steward the gift of these beautiful children well. Please pray for us as we remember you. Our children are not yours, nor are they for you, but we will raise them for God’s glory, as I’m sure you wish you could with those you’ve lost.

Be faithful,

Alan

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