Once a month or so I head over to Mission Hills Church and teach a class to a group of unwed pregnant young women and the occasional baby daddy supporting them. I run into a cast of characters at Birthchoice but this week might have been the most memorable EVER.
In the front row sat a very pregnant and lovely young gal. Beside her was an older gentleman who resembled Santa Claus. The age gap between the two was close to forty years.
I almost asked if the man rubbing her shoulders and cooing support in her ear was her grandpa or father but I felt prompted to hold my tongue.
As I started the class I bantered with the girls and asked a few questions. When I got to these two, it didn’t take long before the story poured out.
Santa was the baby daddy.
And it wasn’t pretty.
The girl clearly had some mental disabilities attributed to an accident during her teen years where she had lingered in a coma for weeks. Although still able to comprehend, there was dullness behind her beautiful brown eyes. She struggled with social filters and boundaries.
And from a distance (without perspective) it looked like this man had taken advantage of a young mentally disabled girl.
My stomach dropped and I choked back the rising waves off revulsion behind my tongue.
But as I talked, I secretly watched the two and how he interacted with her. Surprisingly he was gentle and patient and kind. I saw true delight and care behind his eyes.
Huh?
And then all of a sudden Jacob came to mind –Jacob, the biblical patriarch who dealt a shady hand all his days. This is the man who stole a birthright from his brother Esau, finagled the best livestock from his father in law and took his wives and kids and hitched the first camel train out of town.
But then one night it all came crashing down and Jacob was forced to confront his brother and the past.
He spent a night near the river Jabbock (which means wrestle in Hebrew) and Jacob did exactly that –he wrestled with God. He came clean. He owned his past and persistently dealt with his junk until God allowed him to pass through. He came out on the other side wounded (with a lingering blow to the hip) but able to move into his future unencumbered.
And here was this man before me -a man with kids my age who had impregnated a young girl, who didn’t run for the hills.
He didn’t abandon her.
He didn’t encourage her to abort the baby.
I imagine he had to face some ANGRY parents and possibly law enforcement.
Instead he owned it.
He accompanied her to parenting classes, assembled a team of friends and family to assist her and stayed close by her side.
I saw a man wrestling with God.
His sin was painfully obvious. It was the eye-sore in the room. Even the young knocked up sixteen year old girls felt justified that their mistake certainly wasn’t as heinous as his.
And I was reminded that in God’s economy nothing is ever black or white. And grace and forgiveness and sacrificial love trump righteousness every time.
God gave me new eyes that night. I saw myself in this man and my own struggles with failure and brokenness. The Jabbock nights flashed before my eyes where I have confronted the past and wrested with my soul.
The nights where I have ripped open the shiny facades I hide behind to expose the real me within and acknowledge the deep crevices and prickly darkness to the one who knows my most secret sins.
I saw a man who courageously faced his grimy soul and sat before me humbled and refreshed.
Not many sixty-five year old men get to be new daddies. There was humor and pain as he shared his unfortunate tale.
And it made me smile.
I believe God brings families together in the most bizarre ways.
I believe he can restore relationship out of ashes.
And I believe he can build something new and wonderful out of a contrite grandpa/baby daddy holding the hand of his greatest source of brokenness and future blessing.
