54,000 Breaths

On death, miracles, and not getting what you want.

Aug 02, 2024

My dearest readers, this article references infant loss. Please take care when reading.

I started walking on May 23. I knew that I needed to get moving, and decided that I could keep whining about my lack of time, energy, and other half-assed excuses for avoiding deliberate exercise, or I could be honest with myself, and admit that all of my “reasons” were flimsy at best. As it turns out, my morning walks have been a balm to me in a season that has turned out to be full of really difficult things that I did not see coming. But I feel like some secret part of me knew back in May, that July-me would need these walks. The wisdom of the body is not to be trifled with. Or ignored.

As surprising as the therapeutic nature of these walks has been, even more surprising has been how many times I’ve broken into a jog on these walks. I didn’t set out to start jogging, but I am learning to let my body lead me in this, and if she wants to jog, I say “yes”. I’ve no good reason not to oblige.

Another surprise—how quickly my breathing fell into a familiar rhythm from years ago when I ran 10 miles for ~~fun~~ Compassion International. I can’t describe it to you, but I know when I’m breathing well on a jog because of how it sounds in my ears, and how it feels in my lungs. The experts say that the average human breathes 20,000 times a day.1 Everybody has their own breathing rhythm and it turns out, my body remembers how to breathe when my feet start picking up pace. Except this morning. This morning, it was harder to breathe.

Last week, I caught a cold, or something, on a flight home from Florida and my lungs have not recovered yet. I thought I’d turned a corner but today my lungs feel fiery and “not quite right”.

Today marks a week since experiencing another unwanted surprise of the summer, and I can’t tell if my struggle for breath is real, or psychosomatic. Maybe it’s both.

A year ago this week, I stood beside the bed as my nephew slipped from the bodily sanctuary of the womb, out into the world. I found out later that afternoon, that at the exact moment that he took his first breath, friends, several states away, were actively praying for his arrival. They didn’t know what stage of labor my sister-in-law was in, but said they’d felt compelled to pray right then.

As exciting as it was to see him at last, I’m not sure how to describe those excruciating moments waiting for Isaac to take his first breath. It felt as if we’d tumbled into a black hole, all of us waiting, wondering, praying, hoping—fear and doubt, hovering around us. Isaac wasn’t expected to make it to his own birthday alive. We knew that if he breathed at all, it would be a gift. A miracle.

Early morning rainbow spotted while on one of my walks.

The sight of little Isaac, gray and still, lying on my sister-in-laws chest is a memory I will forever carry. We’d heard his heartbeat all the way through labor, but that reality felt at odds with what we were witnessing. After a good bit of rubbing, a lot of coaxing, the tiniest oxygen bag I’ve ever seen, and no doubt, the prayers of strangers, he finally did breathe.

The average human breathes 20,000 times a day; we were praying for just one breath.

I don’t have the right word for whatever it was that hung in that air as we all held our breath, hoping to hear his. How can I describe how the weight of the reality that he might not breathe ever, hung over the bed as we cried and pray-begged God for one little gasp?

And how can I tell you that even as we were afraid, we were also distinctly held by an ethereal sense of comfort at the same time?

My favorite moment of that day—getting to hold Isaac just moments after he was born.

Isaac was born with Trisomy 13, and defied all expectations and medical experts who, at different moments during my sister-in-law’s pregnancy, declared that he was unlikely to make it to his own birth day. When he finally did breathe, his breathing was labored, a bit of a snuffle, on account of the shape of his palate and his little nose, but every breath was grace.

We counted Isaac’s fingers and toes, but did not count his breaths. When he slipped into eternity 43 hours later, our hearts broke in ways that none of the medical facts about his situation prepared us for. That was all jargon. Then it wasn’t.

He was here. Then he wasn’t. That was it.

43 hours later, having taken approximately 54,000 breaths, Isaac breathed for the last time. By our prayers for just one breath, God had been generous. It’s a daily choice to see the generosity of God and call it enough, even when you want more. And I think it’s okay to say to God that you want more. It’s honest. There’s no need to make half-assed excuses about your prayers.

Death raises all sorts of questions, and the death of infants raises a host of other existential questions that mostly, cannot be answered sufficiently.

In his book, Lament For A Son, Nicholas Wolterstorff reflects on these unanswerable questions and having his faith tested by the loss of his own son. “Faith is a footbridge that you don’t know will hold up over the chasm until you’re forced to walk out onto it. I’m standing there now, over the chasm. I inspect the bridge. Am I deluded in believing that in God the question shouted out by the wounds of the world has its answer? Am I deluded in believing that someday I will know the answer? Am I deluded in believing that once I know the answer, I will see that love has conquered?” I read this passage and realize I’m holding my breath as I read.

For months before Isaac was born, we prayed for him to be healed. We knew we were praying for a miracle. We knew that to the medical experts, those prayers sounded foolish. Delusional. But Isaac’s diagnosis challenged our faith. We heard what they were all saying and believed it, while at the same time, believed other things were also possible.

We are fools if we claim that doubt cannot coexist with faith. There’s room enough in God to hold it all.

Isaac on my lap just hours before he breathed for the last time.

God didn’t heal Isaac in utero, but instead sent him into the world alive, which was a different miracle, but miraculous all the same. Instead of years, God gave Isaac hours. Instead of millions of breaths, God gave Isaac only a handful. There’s no making sense of this in any satisfactory kind of way. The question of why? will always hang in the air.

One of the most confounding things about God is that we don’t always get what we want, but we always get what we need. And, rarely are those two things aligned. I wrote whole chapters about this very real faith experience, and the Scriptures reiterate this Truth story, after story, after story.

This summer has been upside-down and inside out in some truly difficult ways. Some mornings, remembering to breathe deeply has been a whole job. Nearly every plan and intention has been tossed to the wind and scattered like chaff. The stacks of books I’d intended to read, the dreaming and work I’d intended to do, the planning and preparation for the fall—nearly none of it materialized.

But I am walking again. And some days, I’m even jogging. I’m not counting my own breaths but I’m recounting the few that I got to see Isaac take. I’m remembering the laughs around my parent’s dining table a couple of weeks ago as my Dad recovers from a severe illness. I’m treasuring the texts from praying friends, and teary conversations with my sister-in-law as we mark Isaac’s life, and marvel at how 43 hours and 54,000 breaths changed us all forever.

Am I deluded in believing that in God the question shouted out by the wounds of the world has its answer?… Am I deluded in believing that once I know the answer, I will see that love has conquered?

I’m not done praying for miracles. The wallop of this season isn’t over. But today I’m taking a few deep breaths and calling them prayers—

Prayers of grief

…of thanksgiving

…of lament

...of need

…of hope

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I’ll be at Summer Gross’ Long Table Retreat in September and would love to see you there. I’m delighted to be hosting the Art tent and look forward sharing about ways we can connect with God through Art. Join us!
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