I sat there. I sat there and I held him. After almost five months of waiting. No, after almost five years of waiting. I sat and I held him. I looked at his mama. I saw the light in her eye. I saw the smile on her face. After almost five years of waiting. After so many more than that, he was here. Words cannot express the power of that moment. I sat there and I held him. This child who may never know how many tears were cried for him. How many prayers. This child. For this child she had prayed. For this child they had prayed. For this child we had prayed.
He is a miracle. And yet the casualty of that phrase does not give justice to what he is. He is power reached down. The hand of God moving. Supernatural found in the natural. He is a miracle.
Born three months early at one pound, fifteen ounces. I had never seen a baby that small. Skin so translucent it looked more like thin plastic than skin. Skin so thin we were told to compress him, rather than stroke him. And yet, even three months early, He was still so intricate, so detailed, so perfect. James Davis. The miracle child. The miracle man child. A child brought out of so much trial, so much difficulty. A child brought into so much joy. Consider it all joy, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect work, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. Consider it all joy.
Consider it all joy, James. All of it. Every struggle. Every cry. Every moment of confusion. I look at your sweet little face. That perfect little face struggling with emotions and ideas, trying to make sense in such a big, big world. I see you form O’s with your mouth, I see you want to cry because of the discomfort of growing. I see you look with eyes so big they could soak up experience like a sponge. I see you look, and I wonder, what do you see? And what will you do with what you see? I see you reach out, with tiny hands and tiny fingers. I see you grab above you and sometimes you come back empty handed. But I see other times as you reach and you reach big, and those hands, even so small, come back with something. And your legs move and your face brightens and I know you know. You know that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And so you endure. And so you grow. And there are days when it seems hard. And there are days when it seems long. And there are days when we must choose to know that the testing of our faith produces endurance. But we will endure. You will endure, sweet baby James. and that endurance will have its perfect work. And as I watch you grow, and watch how beautiful you are, I think, how could something that seems so perfect become any better? But you will. You will grow. You will strengthen. And days will slow into nights. Sunrises will set into dusk. And dusk will grow into dark. And dark will transform to light and all will continue again and again and again. Until we see you bigger, stronger, wiser. And one day you will reach again. But this time, you will reach with not so tiny hands. And perhaps there will be times when you come back empty handed. But, sweet James, there will be other times. Times when those not so tiny hands will come back with something. And your legs will move and your face will brighten and I know you will know. You will know that the testing of your faith produced endurance. And so you endured. And so you grew. So that the testing of your faith will have its perfect work. And you will be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. So consider it all joy, James.
Consider it all joy.