I held my grandson, our eighth grandchild, in my arms. I search for words to describe that feeling: holding someone who is not your own, yet is. A child so fragile and so strong, entering a world of fears and hopes, victories and defeats, hurts and pleasures.
And he is unaware of it all.
Quietly, he rests in my arms, and for a man who has spent much of his life studying writers and writing, the words disappear in his rhythmic breaths, interrupted by his occasional high-pitched whirr, so soft it almost passes unnoticed.
We arrived the same day our son, David Jr., and our daughter-in-law, Kayla, came home from the hospital. Davey (David III) had entered the world three days earlier.
It’s interesting how a newborn changes everything. As prepared as his mom and dad were (this is their fourth), a baby doesn’t wait for attention; he demands it. The long-awaited child doesn’t ask permission to take up time and space. It’s not as if the baby is unexpected, like some curious object washed ashore. You know when a baby is coming, or at least when it’s close. But when Mom and Dad carry him through the door, it’s showtime. We wait and wait, and then kaboom: everything must center on that newborn.
The people of God waited far longer than nine months for the Messiah. They waited through exile and silence, through prophets who pointed ahead and kings who disappointed. Generation after generation whispered the promise to their children, who whispered it to theirs. And when he finally came, he came the way babies do: small, wrapped in cloth, with no announcement beyond a few shepherds and an angel choir. Most of the world was busy. The inn was full. Only a few recognized him for who he was.
Among them was an old man named Simeon, who had been told he would not see death until he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. When Mary and Joseph carried the infant into the temple, Simeon took the child in his arms. And holding that baby, he said he could depart in peace, for his eyes had seen salvation (Luke 2:25-32). Simeon didn’t study the child from a distance. He held him.
Baby Davey reminded me this week that, like him, Jesus demands our attention, only not in a needy way, but in a way that rearranges the household. Nobody who holds a newborn stays the same. It’s the same when we Christ takes up residence in our lives. Schedules bend. Priorities shift. The loudest things in our lives suddenly seem smaller.
Christ comes to us much like a newborn: not as an idea to debate, but as a presence to receive, one that transforms us as we look to him.
So I sat there with Davey asleep against my chest, his breath warm and slight, and found myself humming. No words necessary. Just the assurance that in that moment, all is well. I am at peace.
Davey doesn’t know yet what the world holds. But I know who holds him, and who holds me. In that quiet room, with a baby in my arms, I rested in a peace something like Simeon must have felt. In that moment, no words are necessary, for I, like Davey, rest in my Father’s arms.