Chattanooga Nights: The Graham Posts

Each and every evening, Sandy prayed over her baby boy – even into his young adult years – the words “Sleep sweet in Jesus…”

Night was never Gra-Gra’s favorite time; he didn’t sleep through the night until he was 11 years old! These were his most vulnerable hours, those pre-‘nighty-night’ moments.

I can still hear Sandy call out in her same sing-songy way, “Gra-Gra, time to go night-night!” and our little man reply, “I don’t want to, mommy.” But then, knowing he so disliked the night, would help him ease into it by indulging their sweet ritual.

For many years, they shared this mommy-and-son time; incidentally, it is when Graham often opened up about the things that either bothered or mattered to him. Sandy would climb into bed with her beautiful baby boy (at whatever age) and listen to his dreams, fears, burdens, day’s recaps and tomorrow’s plans.

We didn’t know it as we drove away from Erlanger with our new baby, but a night was coming to us, so dark and dreadful. How we needed our Father to climb into our bed with us and tell us it was okay to close our eyes and sleep, that he was keeping watch over our souls.

Ernst

Before we could take our baby boy across the state line from Tennessee into Georgia we had to get permission from child services in our state. Because the little guy came early we weren’t able to get the requisite home visit in time. We had to scramble to get it done and make sure every duck was corralled and every T crossed to go from Point A to Point B. The next twenty-fours hours from hospital hand-off to home would require some pretty fancy footwork.

The game plan was to leave our son with Sandy’s sister in Chattanooga while we raced the two hours in time for an afternoon home visit with our very by-the-book no-nonsense child services officer, Ernst Bierkerut. Yeah, whatever you’re picturing in your head, that’s him. Imagine our glee, when after a grueling two-and-a-half-hour session, Mr. Bierkerut was finally, mildly, unenthusiastically, somewhat okay with our home being borderline acceptable.

“You may go get your son,” he deadpanned.

We, on the other hand, danced like little schoolkids and cried happy tears to the heavens. Ernst may have even slightly smiled.

The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
– Job

Friday, September 29, 1989 Chattanooga, TN

Eight years earlier, I face-planted into the thin smelly carpet of my dorm room and told the Lord I was done with living life on my terms and behaving like a libertine when I was away from my Christian college’s campus. The hypocrisy is over. The rebellion ends here and now. Whatever it takes. Whatever I need to surrender.

Now, eight years later, on the exact day and in the very same city, I have a son. It’s not lost on me that, one, dates are important to God within the sphere of human events, and, two, though I lost something valuable (my legs), I gained something infinitely better: fatherhood.

The Lord gives, takes away, and gives much more in its place.

Eight years. Eight, as I understand Hebrew numerology, relates to new beginnings. Sandy and I had come to the end of our season of longing and pleading, despair and dashed hopes. God came through, as he does. The heavenlies had shifted and a new day had come for this childless couple.

Ernst gave his permission, as if he could stop anything God ordained, and we were off to Chatt-town to get our boy.

We roared into town, throwing the car into park in the driveway. The small house was packed with loved ones, all celebrating this next mile of our journey with us. A quick supper, we were saying our good-byes in the dining room when a family member came around the corner from the living room. His face was white as a sheet.

“He’s not breathing.”

Three harrowing words. In a simple turn of phrase our world suddenly started splitting at the seams. Little peanut Graham was still as a stone in his carrier, head lolling to the side. Frantic, we dialed the emergency line at the Children’s Hospital and, after describing the symptoms, were told to get him there as fast as possible.

Sandy’s mom climbed into the back seat with our newborn and we beat a path to the same hospital where his life began, a twenty-minute drive away. We caught nearly every red light en route and were at one infuriating moment stopped by a slow-moving train. My mother-in-law tried to keep us calm by saying Gra-Gra was fine, still faintly breathing. “But hurry.” [Later she told us she was frightened because nothing she tried brought any kind of response. At one point, she was convinced he was gone. ]

By the mercies of God, we arrived at Erlanger and a waiting team of responders literally wrenched our son away and rushed him behind large steel doors, disappearing from view, our tiny bundle lost amid a blur of scrubs and white.

Our next moments dragged by until a doctor came out to us and said he’s alive, just barely, the preliminary tests show some kind of infection, perhaps even meningitis, they would need to do a spinal tap ASAP, do we give our permission…wait here until we finish…

Seemed to us that Death was doing all the swallowing this time……

A nurse told us the tap had been performed and they were waiting for the results. “Would you like to see your baby?” she asked us. We were directed to a room closed off by a wall of glass for viewing. A tiny, naked little body, just a stub of a tiny person, was stretched out on a metal table, electrodes, lines and tubes somehow draped in, on, and around him. A small bandage covered his lower back, covering the spot where they drained some spinal fluid. Sandy reached for her mouth. We both silently wept.

Dear God…our little boy…

We never left the hospital. The ICU waiting room was our bunker and the first night as our newborn son’s legally recognized guardians was the longest of our lives. Sometime during the night, I needed to find a secluded spot and found an alcove nearby where I could cry out to God for answers.

“Father,” I pled, “what is this? Why, God? Why?” Silence. “I don’t understand,” I continued. “Will my son live?”

More silence. Impregnable silence.

“Please, oh God…please…we need a miracle here…tonight…ohjesusohjesusohjesus…please…help…”

I’ve never heard the audible voice of God, but I’ve come close and the closest I’ve ever come was in those next few seconds as I waited for news – any news – from the Great Physician. I am most certain He said:

Your son will not die, but live. I have a purpose for Graham’s life; Satan knows it and wants him dead. Rest now, I will not let that happen…

He did recover. Results for meningitis returned negative. Evidently, he had contracted a bug during the birth process and his tiny body had to learn to fight it off. He was meant to live.

He spent eight days in the hospital and we never left his side. Eight days. There it is again. The number eight. Perhaps I’m reading far too much into it, but please allow me this. It’s not a panacea but a signpost that God was near, he was with the three of us, and Death was being swallowed up in his victory.