This is the story of a little girl.
Many years ago, in our not-so-early 40s, Alicia and I discovered she was pregnant again. I thought she had the flu - but silly me it turned out to be a pretty big late-life surprise. Abraham and Sarah lived. So off to our OB-GYN we headed, giddy that we got to board the baby train one last time.
Our doctor was always quite the character. He helped deliver our other two girls and had a kind of crazy-southern-grandpa vibe about him. As nervous parents, he more than once comforted us by reminding us that “mamas are having babies all around the world right in the dirt...you gonna be fine.”
It felt surreal to be back in his office. We were like two kids in a candy store as we waited to see him after the initial ultrasound. But when he entered the exam room, his demeanor was unlike any other time I had seen him. No jokes. No smiles. A stack of papers in his lap that he silently flipped through.
He explained that the ultrasound showed critical concerns with the baby. The terms he used implied that the child wouldn’t survive after being born. He confessed that this was beyond him, and we would need to be transferred to a specialist. Grabbing our hands right there in the office, he prayed for us and sent us on our way.
Out of the office. Down the elevator. Through the parking lot. All of that is a fog. The next thing I really remember is getting in our car and crumpling in a heap of tears.
Oh God, what are you doing? What in the world are you doing?
In the month prior to that, our daughter, Ella Lynd, had been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. That had turned our world upside down. It was one of the saddest seasons we have experienced in our marriage, watching our child suffer. This pregnancy felt like an unexpected treat. A respite in the middle of a tough season… water in the desert.
But now… to have this happen… to get this news… we were being kicked while we were down.
Why God? What is the point of this? This feels… mean.
The next few months were a blur. So… many… appointments. A roller-coaster of ups and downs. At one point, our “specialist” mentioned the option of terminating the pregnancy. Wow. No. That was not an option. We instead wanted every test, procedure, scan, or whatever that could possibly be a help to our child. Day by day and week by week, we just tried to do the next right thing.
And then one day… finally… Aliza Joy was born.
Aliza means “joy,” so her name is literally double-joy. No one has ever lived up to a name more than her. She keeps us laughing and young… and tired. Oh, so tired. When she was 2 years old, she had to have surgery to remove a cyst in her neck. The doctors described it as “perhaps the remnants of something that resolved itself in the womb.”
Oh God, what have you done? Look what you have done. Thank you.
I said this is the story of a little girl—and I’ll never get tired of telling that one about Aliza Joy. But she’s actually not the little girl I was thinking of.
You see, many years before Aliza Joy was born, there was another little girl. Her parents got news during their pregnancy that she had health challenges that would be too much for her to survive past birth. When the time came, she did indeed pass away. We wept with the family. We wept for the family. I got to see and hold her sweet frame for a few moments. I will never forget her.
Years after that, during our pregnancy with Aliza Joy, no one was more prayerful and vigilant than those two parents were with us. That mom would even look at the latest scans of Aliza Joy in the womb, trying to encourage us and give us hope—all while holding the memory of their own beautiful little girl.
Oh God, who does that? Who can explain the body of Christ?
It was an absolutely undeserved grace for two hurting people like us. Which is all so apropos, as the little girl’s name was Gracie. Gracie Baker… daughter of Benji and Rebekah Baker.
At the time of this writing, we are weeks away from the Baker family moving on from our church after 15 years leading the student ministry. Benji is taking a position with Impact 360 down in Georgia to further use his gifting and experience to shape the next generation of Christ followers. It’s a beautiful opportunity that the Lord has led him to. It fits him well. Even still—as Impact 360 is connected to Chick-fil-A, I will temporarily be cursing them and their stupid cow a little bit under my breath every time I order a number one combo. Fellowship Bible Church should get free waffle fries for the month of August.
If it takes a village to raise a child (and it does… especially a teenager), then everyone should be so blessed as to have a family like the Bakers in their village. Countless are the ways they have loved on, wept with, and poured out their lives for others in their time here. And as long as I live, I’ll never have a better picture of the cost of following Jesus in community. The first time I spoke of how overwhelming it was that they could be so kind to us in that season, Benji’s response was a one-sentence sermon unto itself: “if we were able to, it’s because someone else first did that for us.”
The many blessings and benefits of following Jesus are easy enough for churches and ministries to trumpet in a hurting world. But what of the burden? It’s part of the planned cost of life in the body that we carry burdens we otherwise wouldn’t have to. “Together is better” is absolutely true. And yet, as good as that looks on a banner, the other side might just as easily say “…but sometimes it’s gonna hurt.”
Another example of this to me is my bride Alicia—who in her healthcare knowledge has counseled and encouraged so many women battling cancer despite losing her own sister to cancer 16 years ago. Walking together sometimes means treading back over ground zero of our deepest sorrows. What a work of the Spirit it is that we are able to sometimes run into—not away from—a flaming building when we can still smell the smoke from our own burns.
It all reminds me of a character on a TV show, who in a memorable soliloquy about sacrifice declared, “I burn my life to make a sunrise I’ll never see.” As eloquent as that is, our path is not so dire. Not so pessimistic. We burn our lives in service to a person we will see. Face to face one day with the Son risen. I imagine in faith that at that point, the “costs” won’t seem so costly. I expect we’ll see more clearly than ever the depths of His love that worked through us and among us… and I especially hope to tell one little girl the story of how it made all the difference along the way.