Eliana Joy

Three months ago, my wife Amity and I found out that our unborn daughter had serious brain abnormalities. An in-depth ultrasound at five months revealed that sometime during the first month of development, her brain had not properly folded to form the division separating the left and right halves. She continued to grow over the next four months, but her brain developed incorrectly, having missed that crucial earlier step.

The question remaining was the degree of the abnormality: severe, mid-level, or mild. The answer to that would reveal the likelihood of her passing away during the pregnancy, during labor, or surviving with severe mental disabilities; but those were the only three possibilities. We could expect some degree of facial deformities as well. We prepared ourselves for what lay ahead: the prospect of taking care of a very precious, needy little girl.

We named her Eliana, "the Lord has answered," and gave her the middle name Joy, a family name. We knew our daughter would not receive much direction from the name herself, so we chose one that would speak to those who crossed paths with her — Eliana Joy, "The Lord has answered with joy." It says much about our feelings for her, and testifies to what the Lord has done through her life.

The night we named her, Amity became aware that Eliana was no longer moving. The gentle attempts to stir her, which had always worked before, brought no change. Eliana was born to us lifeless the following morning at 3:00 a.m after a long and difficult labor.

She was a beautiful, beautiful little girl. Very tiny. Very sweet. She had already taken after her mom, with elegant, long arms and legs, and sleek, graceful fingers and toes. One of our nurses left us a note saying, "I will always remember Eliana with the graceful hands." We spent most of the day saying both hello and goodbye to our little one.

A child's death is a very real stumbling block. It forces you to stop mindlessly walking through life and to look long and hard at what you believe, whatever that may be — whether you have a strong faith, weak faith or no faith. Just like an obstruction in the middle of a road must be dealt with, life's stumbling blocks also cannot be ignored. They are real. You have to get over them or you never move forward.

The stumbling block to our faith here is obvious. Central to what Christians believe are these biblical claims: that God is in control, that He is wholly good, and that He is full of grace. Eliana's death seemed to contradict these truths. If God is in control, then why the flub in her development? If God is wholly good, how could He take an innocent child? If He is a God of grace, why all the tragedy and grief?

With this stumbling block looming before us, Amity and I experienced many moments of confusion and grief. We felt very alone, felt very far from God. Was He angry that we no longer felt strong in our faith? It seemed difficult for life to go on. We knew it must, but we didn't know how.

After struggling with these kinds of thoughts, the Lord brought to mind a passage from C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters.

It is during such rough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that [man] is growing into the sort of creature [God] wants [him] to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best ... He cannot "tempt" to virtue as [Satan does] to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with their stumbles. ... [Satan's] cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do [God's] will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.

Jesus is the ultimate example of this. As He hung on the cross, for the first time ever He didn't feel His Father's presence. In His very real anguish and confusion Jesus screamed out, "My God! My God! Why have You forsaken Me!" He still could have called down angels to rescue Him. But in obedience, He chose to stay and suffer alone, "forsaken."

Amity and I began to understand the story of the cross in a new way. And when we felt alone, confused, and frightened, Jesus the Son understood us — He has been there.

Leaving the body of our daughter behind at the hospital, knowing that we would never be able to hold her again, was one of the most difficult things we have ever done. Amity's arm stretched out to Eliana as we walked out the door, trying to stay as close to her for as long as possible.

God the Father heard His Son cry out to Him from the cross — and He could not act — not because He wasn't capable, but because His own plan would not allow it. His plan was to make salvation available to you and me, a plan for which His Son's death was absolutely necessary. And so He had to let Jesus die. He had to leave His Son in much the same way as we left Eliana. God the Father knows what it is like to lose a child. He has been there.

To my understanding, Christianity is the only religion that can make these claims about God: that He has been in our place (both as a Parent and as a Son) and gone through the same things we do. He has not called us to anything He has not done Himself.

Yes, the death of our child is a stumbling block, and yet we remember that even God's own Son was subjected to death. This is why I still believe that the God of the Bible is exactly Who He says He is, and that our stumbling block somehow fits into His plan.

The book of Job always used to sting me. Job sits on a pile of rubble, having lost his wealth, health, and family, and says, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord." I knew that, were I in his place, I would never be able to say those words with sincerity. I thought that there was no way Job could really be doing so either. There had to be a measure of sarcasm or bitterness in his tone: "The Lord taketh — but what can you do about it? ‘Blessed' be His name."

In losing Eliana, we experienced pain and suffering to a degree hard to describe. We have tasted Job's tragedy, and now we know that pain did not bounce off of him, enabling him to say what he did. He hurt deeply. But in his pain he experienced the phenomenon of communion with God.

The intimacy with God that we all crave comes to us most tangibly in the midst of suffering. At different times in the past, I had tried to imagine how I would deal with the loss of my wife or a child. I played out all sorts of scenarios. But the one I never factored in was the incredible grace of God. His presence is always there, of course, but through the loss of Eliana, it was suddenly revealed in a new and powerful way to Amity and me. The veil was lifted a bit. In the midst of great confusion, we were keenly aware of Christ's hands behind us, before us, below us, above us, wrapped all around us, and intertwined within. His presence was so palpable; it felt as though He was more involved in the story than we were.

That intimacy, I believe, is due in part to sharing in the picture of Christ's suffering. The whole Bible tells us that this is the way the world works: it takes great pain to bring about great good. A seed has to die in order for a plant to grow; an illustration Jesus Christ used in reference to Himself.

By living out God's own story, a communion and "knowing" occurs that is impossible to achieve at any other time. God is not a God who stands aloof, doing His will and watching from a distance while we writhe about. He cares deeply and desires to be intimately close.

At one point Amity and I were praying, thanking God for bringing us this new insight into His identity. I prayed that someday He would allow our other children, Isaac and Gracie, to experience the same kind of fellowship with Him that we had just experienced. I could think of no greater gift to them than of catching that glimpse of Christ.

Then I caught my breath when I realized what that would mean. You can't get that kind of intimacy without sharing in some form of suffering. I wanted to suck that prayer back. But I didn't. There is nothing greater than that kind of closeness with God — not even a protected, concern-free life.

The Lord was gracious in allowing Amity and I to participate, in a small way, in His story, in His suffering, but also in the joy of everlasting life. Regardless of what our expectations had been, we had helped to co-create an eternal soul who will praise Him forever. And via our pain, Eliana was enabled to spend eternity before Him. The only thing she missed out on was this brief little blip of time on earth.

Thanks to Eliana, I get a new thrill when I think about heaven. The joy that Amity and I had formerly anticipated — welcoming a family member home — will actually be hers. Eliana will be the one greeting us and showing us our real home. I look forward to that day when the veil will be fully thrown back at last, when we join our little girl and enter an eternity of communion with God.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

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