The Real Blessing

I saw it in so many eyes, and it made me cringe. Pity. They pitied me, my husband, and our son. They pitied the life we had because it wasn’t normal or typical. They saw how our toddler struggled to (not) walk and (not) talk because of a genetic disorder. My sensitive, overly-raw mama heart, fresh off a diagnosis, just couldn’t take the pity. I felt sorry enough for myself. I couldn’t take someone else feeling sorry for us, too.

When life turns in an unexpected direction, seems somehow less-than, and our hearts turn all soggy, it’s natural to grieve, to feel sorry for ourselves, and to push away others’ good, if misguided, intentions. I did it for a very, very long time.

Threaded through my grief was the idea that God’s blessings come in the form of tangible gifts. A nice house. A meaningful job. An awesome partner. Babies (healthy, thriving ones, please). Material yet modest success. I wanted to be the picture of having received all God’s blessings. I don’t think I ever spoke those things out loud or was even consciously aware of them. That is, until one very atypical, not the picture of health baby landed in my arms.

I felt very outside the circle, outside the norm, and the hardest part was not understanding why so many other people got the blessing I didn’t. We were in that season of life when friends and acquaintances were having babies at every turn, and it became really common for me to hear the oft-repeated phrase, “We don’t care what we have as long as they’re healthy.” It was a phrase I used to think nothing about, but the words now made me sick to my stomach. I always wanted to ask, “And what if they’re not healthy? Then what?”

I was mad that other people didn’t have to wrestle with this question that weighed down my heart and made my grief feel so impossible to overcome. While I was never brave enough to actually ask anyone that question, it nagged at my heart, always ruminating in the background of my thoughts. Were there other good things in my life? Yes, but my sight was completely engrossed by this one injustice. Unfair to my son, my family, my hopes and dreams, there was no part of my life that my boy’s diagnosis didn’t touch.

My son is now nine years old, and while no dramatic turning point has resolved all my questions and hurts and uncertainties, moment by moment the years have gently, through repeated daily grace, softened the sting that comes with living an atypical life. As the grief has ebbed, joy has taken up residence, helping me find real, honest good in the unique child God has gifted to our family, the deeper grace and love we’ve experienced as we’ve come to the end of our ourselves, and the realization that no matter our diagnoses or circumstances, Jesus has given us abundant life in him.

The Gospel writer John reminds us, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:10-11 ESV).

I love how Jenny Donnelly describes this abundant life: “As you align with His presence and love, it becomes a place where burdens lighten, and the oasis of rest [in Jesus] creates an environment of fertility where your life assignments can flourish, multiply, and grow.”

I’ve grown thankful for this opportunity God gave us to face some of our biggest fears and disappointments and to wrestle with truly answering, “When they’re not healthy, then what?” Well, then you still love and find laughter and cultivate joy in small and surprising ways. You begin to love that God has called you to a deeper walk with him. You grieve the things that will never be and yet also embrace what is possible only because of this journey.

And what about the pity? Yes, that sometimes still surfaces on particularly hard and draining days. But, now, when I see pity in someone else’s eyes, I’m no longer mirroring it back. Now, when I sense pity from others, I instead want to draw them into our story, to show them the beauty of God and his blessings, the ones that are not tangible, not found in wealth or material things, or in gaining exactly what you want.

[Tweet “The real blessing has always been and will always be God himself. It’s not in the things we have been given or not been given”]

The real blessing has always been and will always be God himself. It’s not in the things we have been given or not been given. It’s his presence, Emmanuel, God with us.

Allison Byxbe is a writer and teacher who lives with her family in South Carolina. When she’s not pondering words, she enjoys hiking, learning about natural health, and drinking the perfect latte. Allison loves to connect with others about family, special needs parenting, mental health, grief, and faith. Her writing has been featured on The Mighty and Her View from Home, and you can find more of it on her blog Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy.