His nurses called him “the little tyrant.” They told us he was the first to get fed. He cried the loudest. His crying though, sounded more like a kitten than a baby, and coming from inside his sealed plastic box it had to compete with the beeps and chimes of the hospital equipment.
Just weeks earlier we had prayed over and over and over again that he would have good lungs, so the nickname felt appropriate and a testament to our God.
Today, three years after that blurry day of disbelief, strained nerves, and instant relief, Jack’s still charged with a lot of energy. He rocks and squeels like R2-D2 when he doesn’t get what he wants, his mission is the relocation of everything- Isaiah’s legos, Breanna’s utensils, my tools, to somewhere they are not likely to be found soon, and he chats non stop as the rest of us talk, but not much of it is in English. Turkana women are amazed Breanna understands him. She tells them she can’t, but she likes to keep talking to him to encourage him to start using real words.
Even though he communicates better with force than finesse, he keeps us entertained, occasionally overwhelmed, but definitely grateful God gave him to our family.
Happy Birthday, Jack!