A Gift of Grace for Caroline's Birthday

I awoke at 5:15 this morning. Not to my alarm, but to Caroline. She was in her room loudly telling the world that she was awake and ready for the day. These are her happy noises. She opens her mouth wide, she says "aaaa," and she throws her whole heart into it.

Sleepily, I got up and turned on the white noise CD we keep in the bathroom to try to drown out Caroline's early morning noises so the rest of the house can sleep. Then I returned to bed. But Caroline was louder than the CD. So I got up and went to her room to tell her good morning--and happy birthday.

Today Caroline can be as loud as she wants. It is her day, after all, so I guess she can be happy and celebrate in her own way. Even at 5 a.m.

Eight years ago, Caroline came to earth and changed our lives. There have been a lot of hard times in those eight years--hospital trips, doctor visits, late nights, early mornings, middle-of-the-nights, sad times, puzzled times, worried times, crying times, sick times, and endless messy diapers (fondly referred to around here as doozies--or, in code, as messages Caroline leaves for us). But there have also been a lot of wonderful times in those eight years--giggling fits, cute smiles when we come to her after a 3 a.m. waking, cuddling in a chair, smiling and laughing when we sing "We're so Glad When Daddy Comes Home."

Caroline is a wonderfully sweet girl who, in the last few years, especially, is remarkably happy most of the time. She smiles and makes her loud talking noises. She laughs when a strong cold wind blows her hair or a sudden silly noise startles her. She lays on her bed and gleefully hits jingle bells hanging above her head. She smiles at her stuffed dog or her disco light. She delights to hear our voices singing or talking to her. She giggles when we play kung fu with her. She kicks with excitement and smiles wide when we pick her up. She stretches out her arms and sticks out her tongue and looks around with eager anticipation when she hears the sound of the van lift. She really is a beautiful, sweet, fun girl who brings a lot of joy and love to our family.

As her birthday has been approaching, I have thought a bit more than usual about her condition. She is--insofar as we can tell--physically and mentally at about a three-month-old level in her development. She shows few signs of understanding us or mentally processing things she experiences or communicating her needs; it appears that her cognitive abilities are severely limited. So as her eighth birthday has loomed ahead, I have thought about baptism. Caroline will not be baptized. She is not capable of choosing good or bad, of sinning, and is not, therefore, accountable for sin or able to choose repentance and baptism.

In a way, this thought makes me a bit sad. Baptism is such a huge milestone in our church and culture. It is something we talk about with children for years before and something we remember and discuss for the rest of our lives. I understand, of course, that baptism is not necessary for Caroline, but her lack of baptism is a reminder of the many other milestones she has missed--and will miss throughout her life. It is a reminder that as sweet and wonderful as she is, she has a pretty hard existence. And sometimes when I think about her condition, I am sad. I am sad for the conversations we will not have and the things we will not do together in this life. I am sad for the experiences she will not have and the earthly potential she will not reach. I am sad for the joys of this life that she will not experience.

But as I write this, Caroline is laying next to me on her bed, and she is not sad. She is, on the contrary, extremely happy. A big wide smile stretches most of the way across her face, she giggles, she makes her loud happy noises as she looks around the room. I pat her side and she laughs a big hearty laugh. Her eyes squint into a smile, and she talks to me. She says, "Aaaaaaaaaa!" and she tightens up her stomach muscles, lifting her head and shoulders and feet and legs off the bed, as she likes to do (often when we change her diapers, which makes diaper changing difficult).

Caroline does not appear sad about her condition. She seems perfectly happy with her existence. So why should I be sad? And I am not sad. I love Caroline and I rejoice in her sweetness, her smiles, her laughs, and her loud noises at 5 a.m. And as I think of her eighth birthday and the baptism that will not be, there is a twinge of wistful longing for what could have been, but mostly there is gratitude--deep and everlasting gratitude that she is "alive in Christ." Of people like her, Mormon wrote to his son Moroni:

Behold I say unto you that this thing shall ye teach—repentance and baptism unto those who are accountable and capable of committing sin; yea, teach parents that they must repent and be baptized, and humble themselves as their little children, and they shall all be saved with their little children.

And their little children need no repentance, neither baptism. Behold, baptism is unto repentance to the fulfilling the commandments unto the remission of sins....

For behold that all little children are alive in Christ, and also all they that are without the law. For the power of redemption cometh on all them that have no law; wherefore, he that is not condemned, or he that is under no condemnation, cannot repent; and unto such baptism availeth nothing. [Moroni 8:10-11,22]

Caroline is "alive in Christ." Though she will not be baptized, the Savior took care of her. She is saved--clean, pure, and worthy of a heavenly home. The Lord's suffering in Gethsemane and resurrection from the tomb has redeemed Caroline from the fall and granted her a future resurrection--unconditionally. She will live with Him again. Of this I am sure, and this certainty brings me joy and gratitude--and a desire to be worthy to be with her.

This morning I sang "I Believe in Christ" as part of my scripture study. I waved Caroline's arm to direct the music as I sang, and afterward, I held her in my lap and reviewed the words and message of that powerful hymn. A few stanzas, especially, were particularly meaningful to me on Caroline's special day as I pondered these words from her perspective, as if she were singing them. Forgive me if I take some license in reordering these stanzas a bit and leaving out others:

I believe in Christ; he stands supreme!
From him I'll gain my fondest dream;
And while I strive through grief and pain,
His voice is heard: "Ye shall obtain."

I believe in Christ; he ransoms me.
From Satan's grasp he sets me free,
And I shall live with joy and love
In his eternal courts above.

I believe in Christ; so come what may,
With him I'll stand in that great day
When on this earth he comes again
To rule among the sons of men.

I believe in Christ; he is my King!
With all my heart to him I'll sing;
I'll raise my voice in praise and joy,
In grand amens my tongue employ.

I have often, in my life, been deeply grateful and profoundly moved by the mercy of Jesus Christ's Atonement and its impact in my life. Today, as an earthly father entrusted with one of God's choicest children, I am deeply grateful and profoundly moved by the Savior's mercy to Caroline, by the infinite reach of His supreme grace in her behalf.

I do believe in Christ. He is, indeed, my King. And with all my heart I'll sing praises of joy and grand amens to His holy name. And so, someday, will Caroline.

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