(The following post is rather sentimental, and far more about Cam’s parents than it is about Cam. I only include it for the possible encouragement of folks who might be walking a similar road to ours.)
It was on the 20th May last year, when Cameron was six weeks old, that we found out about his eyes. It was the worst day of our lives.
Murray said to me the other day that he will never forget how I cried in the passage outside the doctor’s rooms, and that he never wants to hear me cry like that again. I know that he has certainly cried more tears in the last year than he has in the preceding three decades of his life. And yet there is so much to celebrate.
I don’t want to dwell on the things that have been hardest for us or that have hurt us the most. It’s terribly easy to slip into the steamy, satisfying bath of self-pity, and soak there in the deception that such wallowing will soothe our aches. Suffice it to say that we have always been all about adventure. And zest and laughter and slurping life like a milkshake down to the last drop. Contentment and celebration came so naturally – part of our DNA. My spirit used to soar at the smallest manifestation of grace or beauty or goodness. One of the hardest things was getting used to a heaviness that would – and still does at times – blot out the brightness. A friend of ours who has been through something similar with a child of hers said to us that it takes five years to ‘get over it’, but that she still cries from time to time. I often wonder if I’ll ever feel completely like my old self again, but I cling to the promise that He will restore my soul (Psalm 23).
But let me move onto the joy. When Cam was born a fathomless chasm of love opened up in my heart. He is so much fun to live with, and he has brought us even more laughter than tears. I wouldn’t for all the world change a single thing about him.
In terms of his eyes alone, there is so much to celebrate. To think that he was born blind – all he could see was light and dark – and now, with some coaxing and concentration, he can pick a tiny silver ball (the ones you use for decorating cakes) off my hand. He is an independent little soul, almost running, confident to explore any environment all on his own. As we’ve seen him develop over the past 13 months, so many of our fears have come to nothing. He has already grown into far more than his initial prognosis suggested was possible. But of course, with our God, all things are possible.
As his parents we have also learned a lot. Besides the mountain of academic knowledge regarding visual impairment that has loomed before us – sometimes encouraging, sometimes scary – we have experienced profound heart changes. I think Cam’s situation has given us a greater capacity for understanding the pain of others. Things that used to warrant an ‘Ag shame’ from me now often overwhelm me with an aching compassion. Despite our many questions, and the disappointment of prayers not always answered in the ways we think they should be, we have been driven deeper into God. He has used our pain to clutch us to Himself, and I am aware that one’s life speaks loudest in times of suffering.
In John 9, when Jesus’ disciples ask Him why the man was born blind, He makes it clear that it was for God’s glory. That’s it. Reason enough. I recently heard the glory of God defined as ‘the sum of his magnificent attributes and the eternal fame of his mysterious ways.’ How incredible, how awesome, how staggering that our God would make a new little person, with a special pair of eyes, to display His glory, and to make much of Christ in a world that is blind to the truth.
I am so grateful for Murray. There is no one with whom I would rather have gone through this past year. I am so grateful for our family and friends who have sustained us, ‘holding up our arms’ the way Aaron and Hur did for Moses when the pain was too much for him (Exodus 17). I am so grateful for Jacobus Pauw: Cam’s doctor, a friend, a man of God.
So, a year later, as the crisp beauty of winter sets in again, we are content and striving to just keep on doing the next right thing. As my friend Rebecca says, there’s always the future.
It was on the 20th May last year, when Cameron was six weeks old, that we found out about his eyes. It was the worst day of our lives.
Murray said to me the other day that he will never forget how I cried in the passage outside the doctor’s rooms, and that he never wants to hear me cry like that again. I know that he has certainly cried more tears in the last year than he has in the preceding three decades of his life. And yet there is so much to celebrate.
I don’t want to dwell on the things that have been hardest for us or that have hurt us the most. It’s terribly easy to slip into the steamy, satisfying bath of self-pity, and soak there in the deception that such wallowing will soothe our aches. Suffice it to say that we have always been all about adventure. And zest and laughter and slurping life like a milkshake down to the last drop. Contentment and celebration came so naturally – part of our DNA. My spirit used to soar at the smallest manifestation of grace or beauty or goodness. One of the hardest things was getting used to a heaviness that would – and still does at times – blot out the brightness. A friend of ours who has been through something similar with a child of hers said to us that it takes five years to ‘get over it’, but that she still cries from time to time. I often wonder if I’ll ever feel completely like my old self again, but I cling to the promise that He will restore my soul (Psalm 23).
But let me move onto the joy. When Cam was born a fathomless chasm of love opened up in my heart. He is so much fun to live with, and he has brought us even more laughter than tears. I wouldn’t for all the world change a single thing about him.
In terms of his eyes alone, there is so much to celebrate. To think that he was born blind – all he could see was light and dark – and now, with some coaxing and concentration, he can pick a tiny silver ball (the ones you use for decorating cakes) off my hand. He is an independent little soul, almost running, confident to explore any environment all on his own. As we’ve seen him develop over the past 13 months, so many of our fears have come to nothing. He has already grown into far more than his initial prognosis suggested was possible. But of course, with our God, all things are possible.
As his parents we have also learned a lot. Besides the mountain of academic knowledge regarding visual impairment that has loomed before us – sometimes encouraging, sometimes scary – we have experienced profound heart changes. I think Cam’s situation has given us a greater capacity for understanding the pain of others. Things that used to warrant an ‘Ag shame’ from me now often overwhelm me with an aching compassion. Despite our many questions, and the disappointment of prayers not always answered in the ways we think they should be, we have been driven deeper into God. He has used our pain to clutch us to Himself, and I am aware that one’s life speaks loudest in times of suffering.
In John 9, when Jesus’ disciples ask Him why the man was born blind, He makes it clear that it was for God’s glory. That’s it. Reason enough. I recently heard the glory of God defined as ‘the sum of his magnificent attributes and the eternal fame of his mysterious ways.’ How incredible, how awesome, how staggering that our God would make a new little person, with a special pair of eyes, to display His glory, and to make much of Christ in a world that is blind to the truth.
I am so grateful for Murray. There is no one with whom I would rather have gone through this past year. I am so grateful for our family and friends who have sustained us, ‘holding up our arms’ the way Aaron and Hur did for Moses when the pain was too much for him (Exodus 17). I am so grateful for Jacobus Pauw: Cam’s doctor, a friend, a man of God.
So, a year later, as the crisp beauty of winter sets in again, we are content and striving to just keep on doing the next right thing. As my friend Rebecca says, there’s always the future.
1 comment:
Thank you for creating and maintaining this blog so that we can share in the journey, all the ups and downs, with you. It moves me to tears weekly, as it's always so real and heartfelt. It has been a pleasure watching Cam grow and seeing miracles being performed in his life and the lives of those around him. We are priviledged to know him and his parents and call them our friends. We too look forward to the future.
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