Infant Death: Let’s Chat
Infant Death: Why?
Throughout the better part of 1969—fifty years ago—I expected my first child to be born in late January, 1970. I was 23 years old, and infant death was the last thing on my mind.
But on December 17, my expectation turned to celebration at the birth of 6-lb-6-oz Wilson Lee (named for my father, Wilson Brooks). What grand news: “You have a beautiful baby boy!” When I examined the Polaroid photo taken through the nursery window, I had to agree. He was beautiful indeed.
An obstetrician delivered my slightly premature infant, but within a couple of hours a pediatrician delivered something else altogether—devastating news: Your baby won’t survive.
Those words ignited a fire in the pit of my stomach . . . My thoughts flew to the little farm house outside Abilene, Texas where I’d turned a small room into a nursery with second-hand furniture I refinished myself. All sat in readiness, awaiting an infant prince or princess: The crib. The chest of drawers. The diapers, bottles, and sleeping sacks. Blankets. Booties. And rocking chair. Even a Christmas tree with handmade ornaments.
When I returned home from the hospital, I closed the nursery door and didn’t reopen it until I heard the happy message a second time: “You’re going to have a baby.”
Wilson Lee would have turned 50 on December 17, 2019. All of that day I relived the fear, pain, joy, crushing disappointment, disillusionment, utter devastation, and that pesky question—Why?
Well-meaning folks offered platitudes back then, but my father spoke the words that have stayed with me these five decades—the same words he spoke when I asked why the Lord had allowed him to suffer a debilitating, fatal muscular disease: “I don’t know. But I do know God is good and He loves us. So we can trust Him to work out all things for our souls’ good—even disease and death.”
My personal theme verse for 2019 has been Romans 15:13: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him . . .” That verse has become my mantra, but at no time has it meant more to me than on December 17.
When I get to Heaven, I expect to ask three questions: “Where’s Jesus?” “Where’s Wilson Lee?” and “Where are Mother and Daddy?” In that order. One question I expect I won’t ask is “Why?” All the whys will be swallowed up in worship.
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Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. I Thessalonians 4:13