A Call To The Remnant

Entertaining Angels Unawares

Last week, I read the testimony of a well-known influencer who wrote publicly of how he and his wife had chosen to abort their child at twenty-one weeks because the baby had Down syndrome.

What grieved me most was not merely the decision itself, but the reasoning behind it. The child was portrayed as one destined for a life of suffering. The parents presented themselves as the ones bearing the tragedy. The act was framed as an expression of mercy, as though death were somehow kinder than life, and as though the child had been spared a fate worse than the grave.

I closed the article and sat quietly for some time.

Not because I wished to argue.

Not because I was angry.

But because I knew something they did not know.

Or perhaps I should say, something they never gave themselves the opportunity to discover.

Thirty-three years ago, my wife and I found ourselves standing before the very same unknown future.

We too had a child with Down syndrome.

We too were unprepared.

We too were shocked.

We too wondered what lay ahead.

But we did not know then what we know now.

We did not know that what the world might call a burden, heaven would call a blessing.

We did not know that what men might measure by limitation, God had measured by love.

We did not know that our son Daniel would become one of the greatest treasures our family would ever receive.

Most of all, we did not know that God Himself would speak into our fear.

There are seasons in the life of the saint when the clouds gather thickly overhead, and the path seems hedged about with sorrow. The Lord, in His wisdom, does not always reveal the end from the beginning. He often leads His children one step at a time, teaching them to walk by faith and not by sight.

More than thirty years ago, my wife and I found ourselves in such a season.

Our first child had been taken from us. Another had suffered terrible burns. The wounds of those events had not altogether healed when our son Daniel was born. We had not known beforehand that he would have Down syndrome. There had been no warning, no preparation. The discovery came suddenly, and with it came fears of an unknown future.

Within hours of his birth he was taken to the children’s hospital. I remained by his side through the night, watching and praying. Yet my heart was heavy. Questions crowded in where faith ought to have reigned.

On the Sunday morning I went to church carrying a burden that seemed too great for me. The congregation numbered in the thousands. The worship began with the words, “God will make a way where there seems to be no way,” and for a moment my weary soul found some small measure of comfort.

Then the singing ceased.

It was a day appointed for the dedication of infants.

One by one the parents came forward, carrying their children in their arms. All around me were smiles and rejoicing. Mothers and fathers beamed with gratitude. The congregation looked on with delight.

Yet I sat in the midst of them feeling altogether alone.

The tears came quietly. Tears of a weary pilgrim who could not yet discern the purpose of the road upon which he had been led.

There was an empty seat beside me.

Suddenly someone tapped me upon the shoulder.

A note was placed into my hand.

Looking up, I saw a young woman some distance away smiling gently toward me. I unfolded the paper and read these words:

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were crying. Is there something I could pray with you about?”

I had no desire to speak. Yet the empty seat beside me seemed an like an invitation. I beckoned her forward, and she came and sat down.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

I began to explain.

“We just had a baby, he has Down syndrome.”

At once a puzzled expression crossed her face.

I remember feeling almost irritated. Here I was carrying the weight of a mountain, and now I must explain to this young girl what Down syndrome was.

Yet as I looked upon her, the face became covered by something of an aura. The face before me was no longer merely the face of the young woman who had come to comfort me. There was a light, a majesty, a holy tenderness shining through it and I knew, with a knowing beyond reason, that I was entertaining an angel.

And when the vouce came, it was not she who spoke, but the Lord Himself.

“Frank,” He said, “I do not know what Down syndrome is either. All I know is that I have given you a perfect gift from the treasures of heaven.”

Then the moment passed.

But the words remained.

Indeed, they remain still.

My heart exploded with love.

Years have come and gone since that day. Daniel is now a grown man. Looking back across the decades, I can testify that those words were so true.

The world saw a diagnosis.

Heaven presented a gift.

The world saw limitations.

Heaven saw unlimited treasure.

The world measured according to earth’s wisdom.

Heaven measured according to eternal riches.

Daniel has brought more love into our family than I could ever describe. He has taught us tenderness, patience, mercy, and joy. His laughter has filled our home. His kindness has softened our hearts. His presence has been a continual reminder that God’s gifts are not always wrapped according to man’s expectations.

How often we tremble before circumstances that afterwards become our sweetest blessings.

How often we start out fearing the very thing through which God intends to reveal His goodness.

And how often heaven’s treasures arrive disguised as earthly trials.

Whether the young woman remained simply a vessel, or whether I had entertained one of heaven’s messengers unawares, I cannot say. Yet this I know: the Lord Himself spoke comfort to a weary father exactly when it was needed. He opened a window to heaven and allowed a ray of eternal light to shine into a darkened heart.

And now, after all these years, I would not exchange the gift He gave me for any other.

If had been offered a healing that day I may have taken it, not realizing that what was already given was perfect.

If someone offered me the same choice today, I would refuse without a moment’s thought.

For the child I once feared for has become one of the chief instruments of God’s grace in our family.

The child whom some would have pitied has brought immeasurable joy.

The child whom others might have considered a burden has proven to be a blessing beyond measure.

For Daniel has indeed proven to be what I was told that morning:

A perfect gift from the treasures of heaven.

Perhaps some of God’s greatest gifts arrive in forms we do not immediately recognize. Perhaps the blessing stands before us while our eyes are fixed upon the burden. Perhaps the angel sits beside us while we are occupied with our grief.

And so we learn, slowly and often through tears, that our Father’s wisdom is greater than our fears, His love deeper than our understanding, and His gifts better than our requests.

For some, indeed, have entertained angels unawares.