Under the Rainbow (eBook)

3

Designer Made?

The old adage “love is blind” has been used as an excuse throughout the centuries for people who refuse or are slow to see the faults in someone else, simply because of their love for them. We have all witnessed a marriage break-up, and been bewildered that she didn’t see it coming. But then, she loved him… and “love is blind”. We have listened on the news to some poor mother testify that her son was a good boy, when the evidence reveals him to be a murderer. But then, she loved him… and “love is blind”. For seven months I was convinced that I had the most beautiful, normal daughter in the world. Other people, even my own mother, thought differently. But then, I loved her… and “love is blind”.

How could I not have seen it? Just like the boy on the bus, Cheryl was different, yet I had refused to recognize it. Quite a number of our friends had babies in the same year as Cheryl was born. I foolishly thought how lovely it was that Cheryl was still such a cuddly baby, while these other babies wriggled and fussed at times when being held. Each one of my friends’ children would strive for independence in the simplest of things, from holding their own feeding cup to reaching for a favourite toy. Cheryl, on the other hand, had always been the quiet, gentle little girl, who relished all the attention others gave to her. She never screamed in temper at something she couldn’t reach. In fact, she never reached for anything.

And I didn’t notice.

All her little baby friends had strong, big heads, while she had a dainty little one covered scantily with lovely blonde hair.

No problem, I thought, they are boys, after all.

In fact I was glad that her head was small, as she seemed to find it so hard to hold it up without help. When I went to lift one of my friends’ children, they almost rose up to meet me. Cheryl, on the other hand, would have slipped through my hands like a rag doll if I hadn’t held on to her tightly. Yet I had refused to let it register in my heart. Her hands were always tightly closed, yet she was unable to hold on to a toy by herself. She’ll get the hang of it sometime, I told myself.

One thing she could do really well, though, was smile, and what a smile! The whole room lit up when Cheryl smiled, and when you tickled her knees she threw back her head and laughed, just like every other baby. And for some reason, this normally astute nurse was completely blind to the fact that her baby was different. In fact, my baby had major developmental problems. But then, I loved her… and “love is blind”.

Cheryl’s diagnosis of microcephaly brought things sharply back into focus. The condition meant that her brain had stopped growing during my pregnancy, rendering it small. Therefore, her developmental progress would depend on how much of her brain was functioning normally. Conversely, the degree of disability would depend on which areas of the brain were missing or damaged. At this stage no one could tell us what kind of outcome to expect with Cheryl. Consequently, the paediatrician’s statement “She will never be normal” continued to echo in my mind like the throbbing of a bad headache.

I had delivered over forty babies, and given birth myself. It goes without saying that after a baby is born the mother’s first question, once she has found out if it is a boy or girl, is: “Is he (or she) all right?” In the majority of cases the reply is also usually standard: “He (or she) is just perfect.”

Those are the words every midwife wants to say, and every parent wants to hear. The stress of labour is always relieved with the announcement of that news – a perfect baby!

The world we live in today seems to be obsessed with perfection, or at least with its own notion of perfection. Many of us strive relentlessly to achieve academic success, which will in turn open up the perfect job opportunities, that will give us the financial capability to buy the big house filled with the perfect size-zero-wife and equally good-looking children. They, in turn, will strive relentlessly to achieve academic success, and on it goes. Meanwhile the rest of us look on and wish we could have a share in their seemingly perfect life, and spend our time trying to dip our toes into what we regard as perfection.

Undoubtedly, we live in the world of the designer label. What we wear is not nearly as important as who made it, and that others know who made it. This is so much the case that manufacturers often display their exclusive label on the outside of the garment. Why wear Ralph Lauren or Coco Chanel if no one else recognizes it? A lot of our teenagers would rather die than be seen in a pair of trainers manufactured by anyone other than those of the current trendsetting brands.

The goal of perfection invades many areas of our lives, not least what we wish for our children. We long for them to be perfect, to be healthy, to be successful, and to be liked by others. I was no different. Then when things don’t turn out the way we expect, we reckon that it has to be someone’s fault.

I wish I could say that I accepted Cheryl’s condition without question, as so many other godly people accept dark and difficult circumstances, but I didn’t. It is obvious to me now that I was just beginning to walk the long road of learning unquestioning faith. Then, at just twenty-three years old, I was tormented by questions with elusive answers.

The blame game is a dangerous one to play, and one that has no winners. What surprised me was the number of other players in my particular game. Players who had little previous involvement in my life, yet their cunning and often unwitting tactics added to the suffering of my soul. It amazed me the number of throwaway, hurtful and negative comments that seemed to cast a cloud which obscured the encouraging murmurings of those who cared deeply about my pain.

“Why did God give your Catherine a child like that?” my mother was asked. “When you think of all the evil women in the world today, and your Catherine’s such a good girl.” Mum warded off the comment with the disdain it deserved, but as I held my baby after hearing those words, I was astounded that someone would think of Cheryl as unworthy or simply not good enough for our family. She didn’t fit the perfection mould.

A child’s first birthday usually brings the next big influx of cards after the birth itself, but as news filtered through to friends across the world, we received little notes of encouragement and assurances of prayer long before that date came around. Having many missionary friends and others in Christian ministry at home has always been a source of delight. The ability to confide in like-minded people often helps to lighten the burdens you are unable to share with others. On one day a letter arrived with a foreign postmark that gave away the sender, and as I tore open the envelope I wondered who had told this ministry friend our news. The world is definitely a small place!

“Must be a sermon,” I muttered, “there seems to be masses of paper here.”

A small cotton handkerchief trimmed with orange embroidery floated to the floor as I unfolded the paper. Strange, I thought, as I settled myself down to read the epistle. It started with the usual greetings and I was touched by the sentiments, but it wasn’t long before my jaw dropped and hot tears were stinging my face.

The author was setting himself up as a messenger from God to tell us that it was not His will for Cheryl to be this way, and therefore there must be some sin in our lives which had brought judgment on our family. We were to get on our knees and pray that God would reveal our sin, and after we repented, God would heal Cheryl. In the meantime, he had prayed over the enclosed handkerchief, and if we placed it on top of Cheryl, God would answer his prayer and start the healing process.

I was gobsmacked!

At one time this person had had an important spiritual influence on our lives, and although our contact had been only sporadic in the time leading up to the letter, I was shocked and further pained by his words. By the time Philip arrived home my hurt had turned to anger, and yet I was afraid that there might be some truth in what our friend had said.

“What if Cheryl is disabled because of something we have done?” I asked my surprised husband. “What if it’s our fault?”

If we didn’t put the handkerchief on Cheryl, could we be disobeying God?

Philip and I are so different. He is quiet and gentle, always prepared to look at what lies behind someone’s actions, and not to jump quickly in judgment. At times it infuriates me, and at times I envy his measured and cautious approach. It usually means less repentance time for him, and much more for me!

He read the letter in silence, only the odd sigh hissing from his pursed lips. He was disappointed in what was written, even hurt. He let me release the torrent of my anger, then took me in his arms and let me cry. He’s been very good at that over the years. Then, when the dust had settled, we discussed the comments made in this piece of unwelcome correspondence.

Scripture makes it clear that none of us is as we should be, because sin came into the world in the way described in Genesis chapter 3. It can also be proven medically that some sickness develops because of certain kinds of addictive or immoral...