On Our Knees: The Graham Posts

Outdoor prayer service, New River Community Church; Graham was in his usual place, right beside me. I’m grateful he never lost that place in his heart for Jesus.

I remember fishing on a lake in Minnesota in the spring of 1980. I caught my first-ever large mouth bass that day. It never would’ve dawned on me as a 19-year old that one day I would have a son who would die not far from where I was fishing that afternoon.

Far From Home

“Why can’t you be happy for me, Dad?” Graham was clearly frustrated.

“I’m just sad, buddy,” I replied. I couldn’t bring myself to say the true reason. But Graham read my mind anyway.

“I’ll see you again,” he promised. “It’s not like I’m leaving for good. I just need a new start. If I don’t get out of Georgia I don’t think I’ll survive.”

I nodded, trying hard to understand. My next words had to be measured carefully so as not to drive him out our door for good. His mind was made up; he was dead set on leaving.

“I know you feel you need to do this, Graham. I’m just saying I believe in you enough to think we can beat your addiction here.”

He was having none of it. I could tell from his body language the topic was closed to further discussion. I felt helpless and could only pray for guidance. Don’t let me have blown it, God! After a few moments of silence I felt the urge to add:

“Just know your mom and I support you, buddy. We release you and will always love you.”

Graham softened. “Thanks, Dad. I love you guys too.”

We were headed home, driving down Sweetwater Road, as we passed Moseley Gardens on our right. In a matter of months Graham’s final stop on earth would be a plot of ground in the middle of that very cemetery.

Home Fires

Graham was a preacher’s kid. He didn’t ask to be. His dad was disabled. He didn’t choose that. He was adopted. He never had a vote. That’s a lot for any child to be exposed to. These didn’t cause his addictions but they were contributing factors.

My shelves are lined with filled-up journals, every one a testament to all the things that make me tick; all my dreams, prayers, desires, and failures. Every peak, plain, and pit.

Therein is the entire scope of my journey in faith, ciphered in my scrawl. I was leaving them all to Graham because I wanted him to know his dad, warts and all, and whether he would be proud of me or despise the ground I walked on would be his decision. There’s a ton in there about and for him. I like to think it would’ve moved him greatly to read the prayers of his dad for himself and realize just how loved he was.

A common prayer I prayed throughout Graham’s lifetime; even through his ‘hard’ years, I doubled down in faith. Without a doubt, he kept us on our knees as well as our toes!

My journals are bulging with cherished stories of our home, our closeness, our laughter, and traditions. I refer to them often, especially during those times when the enemy tries to convince me that we were bad parents. Satan is a liar, and we can be, too – about ourselves and about others.

A Hard Lesson

First let me say this: Graham was never embarrassed about my disability. He was proud of his daddy, and loved being with me. He would get a tad irritated when people just stared at me or asked me dumb questions. I told him not to be bothered by it, that I wasn’t, but the lad took the self-appointed business of being my wingman quite seriously.

Having said that, no one would’ve been happier for divine healing for my condition than our son. All his younger years he just wanted to see God do something big, giant, supernatural. If it was for his old dad, so much the better. So when our church fellowship had a special prayer gathering on a Sunday morning, calling for my healing, he was all up in that business.

As we were getting dressed for that morning’s assembly, Graham told me, “Dad, go ahead and load the driver’s chair in the van. You’re gonna need it after you get healed so you can drive yourself home.”

My heart pitied my son in the most tender way in that moment; I used it as an opportunity to teach him something about the ways of God.

“Did God tell you I would be healed today?” I asked.

“Well, not exactly,” he reasoned, “I just know it’s going to happen! How could it not? All those people praying for you!”

“Remember, son, there’s a difference between our wishing for something to happen and our believing it will happen because of faith,” I tried to explain.

“You’re going to walk today, dad.” He stated it so matter-of-factly, I could tell his heart was closed to the truth.

Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve loved to walk out of that church service that morning, but in that moment I was more concerned about the condition of my son’s heart than anything else. When I didn’t walk out of there — if I didn’t — what would happen to his slender hanging-on-by-a-thread faith in God?

Hope Lost

The congregation, adults and children, pressed around me in a tight circle. Gra was standing over my right shoulder and had his hand resting on it. I heard him muttering words but couldn’t make them out. Long, sometimes loud, prayers and petitions went up all over the room. I wish you could’ve heard the young people’s strong prayer asking God to raise me up. It tore my heart out.

Minutes went by and I wasn’t feeling anything. Not in my heart, not in my legs. And before you go saying anything like it was a lack of faith on my part, let me stop you right there. If anyone in that room believed God could do it, I’m your man.

More minutes. Moaning. Crying. Silent prayers, quiet prayers, loud prayers. Nothing. I found myself praying only for my son. The longer the prayers dragged on, the more I could feel my son’s heart deflating. I could even sense that it was hardening.

Finally and mercifully, one of the pastors called an end. He said something most appropriate about our not being disappointed in God, but trusting that his way is best; he’s still good. My son, for his part, did not offer an amen. He was wrecked.

We can just about put a pin at that point in time to mark the moment when Gra said enough.

“I’m done. God isn’t all-powerful. He doesn’t respond to our prayers. Why should I obey him?”

A Moment of Grace

A postscript on that prayer service, if you will. Long after that Sunday morning (I don’t remember if it was days or weeks later) Graham opened up to me about something that happened that morning. When he described what he saw, I had no reason to doubt that he was telling me the truth. He was still so mad at God, so there was no cause for him to make up something to make God look better.

He saw Jesus coming from the back of the room, navigating through the crowd of people. He said he was watching as Jesus, not really even touching anyone, but was moving effortlessly from the back to the front. When he got to the front, he went down on his knees and rested his hands on my paralyzed limbs.

I was dumbstruck. I asked him what happened next.

“He looked up at me. And then he got up and turned around and walked back out,” he said.

When I asked him what he looked like, Graham said he couldn’t see his face but that he just knew Jesus was looking at him. The kicker is, that story never encouraged Graham’s heart. It didn’t turn his heart back to Jesus. He was just telling me about something just as he might say what happened at school or football practice. Just a cool story to share, nothing more, nothing less.

Some time after this, Gra was about to be suspended from his Christian school for some offense. The headmaster called him — and us — into his office. He explained in his grandfatherly way he’d had a change of heart; Graham wasn’t going to be suspended after all. It wasn’t really fair to others who’d been suspended for similar, Mr. North explained, but felt as though, in Graham’s case, and for prayerful reasons, there was room for some grace.

Then he looked straight at Graham, and said, quite sternly:

“Just remember, son; grace refused is grace removed.”

I wish I could tell you the story turned out much differently, but our precious son did not pay heed to those words. And we found ourselves back on our knees yet again.

More on that, next.

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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.

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Rocky Mount: The Graham Posts

Friday, September 29, 1989 Rocky Mount, NC

The phone rang in our hotel room. It was late on a Friday night and we had just finished our last night of a weeklong church revival meeting. I was bushed; completely, exceedingly wiped. I picked up the receiver, puzzled at who might be calling.

“Scott?”

“Jill? Is everything all right?”

“Congratulations, you’re a Dad!”

And there it was. In three stunning words my entire identity changed. I wasn’t just a preacher. I was a Dad. And Sandy wasn’t just married to a paralyzed man, she was a mommy. How beautifully kind of God to write this chapter into our story!

Sandy dropped to the floor. Her mouth flew open, which she covered with a trembling hand, and it stayed there throughout most of the call. We hadn’t expected this news for another three weeks.

What? He’s here? Already?

He?!?

I’m not sure I was hearing everything from that point on. I know I heard something about how smoothly her delivery went, that he was ready, wanted out, needed to see the world, etc. I did catch the part where he was healthy. All ten fingers and toes. A tiny little peanut, he was. 6 pounds, 9 ounces, 19 inches small.

Jill asked when we’ll be arriving. I tell her, “We’ll get there sometime later tomorrow. We need to get a good night’s sleep ‘cause we’re both pretty exhausted (!)….”

Sandy’s waving at me. I frown.

“…Then,” I continue, distracted, “after an early wake up call we’ll hit the road and get to Chattanooga about…” my voice trails off.

By now Sandy has added stomping a foot and waving like a wild woman. What? She’s looking exasperated. Then it dawns on me. Oh.

Oh!

“Ummm, Jill, check that. We’re leaving tonight. (I pause) As soon as we get packed, we’re outta here!”

Sandy signaled with both thumbs high in the air and then proceeded to gleefully whirl about the room. Before disconnecting I told Jill we’d see her around seven a.m. and I hoped she was okay and might get some rest after her long day.

My wife knew I was drained from our six days of nonstop ministry in Tarboro, that I didn’t have it in me to drive, so she insisted on taking over all the driving responsibilities. She was so firm on the matter I knew I had no choice. There was no sense in my pulling the man card and arguing the point; I completely understood she was determined to become a single parent if I did.

I don’t remember the trip. I think all four tires touched the highway at the same time maybe a few times, but the journey from childlessness to prospective parenthood was all a blur and blaze …and then we arrived at Chattanooga’s Erlanger Children’s Hospital just after dawn.

As we neared Jill’s – and our baby’s – room my heart was caught inside my throat and Sandy’s was pounding in her chest. We paused a tick outside her door (which was slightly open) and breathed deeply before entering the room where we would lay eyes on our newborn baby boy for the very first time.

Jill saw us and smiled. The room was arranged so that her newborn was in a crib behind her headboard. She didn’t want to see him, become attached, and change her mind. She was determined this was God’s will.

I don’t think we’ll ever fully understand such a love that lets go to such a degree, but for me it mirrors the way the Father released his Son to the world. Sandy and I admired that wholly spent young girl for such a brave and selfless act.

Our first look at Graham is a fixed snapshot in our memory. His beautiful blue eyes were wide open and alert. He was following sounds and was looking, for all the world, like a veteran at this being outside the womb thing.

Graham was, well, gorgeous. His skin was creamy and soft, his reddish-blond hair, light and wispy. As advertised, he was as small as a peanut.

The next hours were a mist. I remember our dressing him the following morning for the first time. Since hospital protocol didn’t permit the hand-off of a child to its adoptive parents on Erlanger’s grounds, Jill had to hand him to us in the public parking garage nearby.

Oh, the pregnant drama of that moment!

In her shoes, I don’t know how there’s grace for such a thing, only that there is because I was witness to it. As Sandy went to locate our car, I waited with Jill until her family pulled up to the curb. The passenger door opened and as she climbed into the front seat, she still held the baby in her arms. There was no hand off.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Is she changing her mind? I mean, it’s her right to…but…please, God… And just then, as when a dreamlike spell is broken, her eyes blinked.

“Oh,” she said, shaking off her momentary stupor. Handing me the bundle she added haltingly, “I think this is yours…”

The passenger door closed and, without a good bye or word of closure, the car sped off and I was left there, waiting for Sandy, holding our child.

It was done. The all-night drive, the first look at our baby, the hand-off, and now buckled in and free to begin our first drive as a bona fide family. We sighed, we smiled and we giggled. I put the car in drive and lurched forward, pointing the Mitchell wagon home. All was right in our world except for one small detail: as the car pulled away from the curb, the car seat, baby and all, surged and Graham nearly went bottom-up as the seat was not clipped to the back seat!

Our little guy was fine; no harm, no foul, the only thing bruised was our fragile egos! Not until our hearts slowed to a steady rhythm could we nervously laugh it off. Graham seemed oblivious to it all; he never even whimpered. I’m sure in his little baby mind he must’ve been thinking you guys sure you can handle me?

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