Updated: Dec 8, 2021
By April Tribe Giauque
Because I Left Domestic Violence Blessing number 5,499: Pinpoints
I was swollen, tired. As I entered the hospital with my third son, that’s all I could feel. There was a pressing weight on my heart—more than a young mom of three should be given, but during that night, March 26, 2001, my son, Isaac, was placed on my chest. And a pinpoint of hope was handed to me.
He did not yet have the name of Isaac. I searched my heart and found his name whispered to me: Isaac. We gave him his middle name of William after my dad, and as Isaac looked at me, he seemed to say, “I’m here.”
Here, he was born—full of life. As he nursed, I searched the scriptures for the meaning of his name. I came across Genesis 21:3,6, and I felt in my heart this saying: “may God laugh,” or, May God “smile on him.” I looked away from the words on my worn bible and back to him. I smiled at him. I prayed there that he would never forget how my heart smiled at his birth—how he was a pinpoint of hope for me in my darkening marriage. He smiled right at that moment. I knew he was filled with light.
Suddenly, the ringing of alarms in the emergency room sounded off, shattering my memory. My eyes flashed open; I searched the monitor for the alarm and then back to my 20-year-old son lying in a bed, writhing with belly pain, with a few wisps of tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes.
My mind instantly played back the soundbites that fell from his lips earlier that night: “dark place—
Just so sad….
Lonely, Stop the...” his voice catching—him shaking and breathing heavily with wet eyes.
Suddenly the doctors and nurses pelting questions:
“In the past few weeks, have you wished you were dead?”
“In the past few weeks, have you felt that you or your family would be better off if you were dead?”
“In the past week, have you been having thoughts about killing yourself?”
“Do you have a plan?....”
I reached over and held his hand as the IV went into his left arm, holding back and controlling my shaking to help stabilize him. Fear—it was in his eyes. That hollow, hopeless look into the darkness. Where was Isaac’s light? I searched those blue-yellow eyes from the side as the doctors and nurses spoke with him and as my hand grasped his. I looked for light—a pinpoint—just a hope of it!
Quietly, the blunt questions died down over time, and we were left together waiting for the next step. There was an imperceptible pinprick of light from his eyes. It was the tiniest pinpoint of hope, and I saw it in the sea of darkness in the depths of his eyes. It was as if I was staring into the deepest blackest space to suddenly see it as a single star in the darkest night—it was Christ’s light reaching to him.
Suddenly my mind was filled with the gentle strains of the Christmas Hymn, Infant Lowly. And my tears fell freely behind my mask, allowing more light to bounce off towards my son, and he became calm.
The lyrics say,
Infant holy, infant lowly,
for his bed a cattle stall;
oxen lowing, little knowing
Christ, the babe, is Lord of all.
Swift are winging angels singing,
Noelle’s ringing, tidings bringing;
Christ, the babe, is Lord of all;
Christ, the babe, is Lord of all!
I found myself looking into the memory of my infant son Isaac back to my 20-year-old lying in his bed, and suddenly the infant Christ child’s face seemed to reach me with love. I felt these words; I am Lord of all. I love my son, Isaac too.
Then the phrase:
….saw the glory, heard the story -
tidings of a gospel true.
Thus rejoicing, free from sorrow,
praises voicing, greet the morrow:
Christ, the babe, was born for you;
He was born for you...for you, Isaac—for you!
Darkest Night to the Wee Hours of the Morning
As the night in the ER wore into the morning hours, we were finally released. His pain was there, but his hope, his pinpoint, was shining towards him. I tucked him in and hugged him, giving him all my love. That all came from Christ.
For as I heard the words, the pain, the poor choices, the angst, the fear, and the deep loneliness, of only having one friend…..I had to be his earthly anchor. His faith could not hold to Christ’s love—yet—for he has been away for so long. However, as I watched the pain and hollowness of my son, I felt the strength of the Lord was given to my shoulders to hold up the situation.
I prayed to have God take this from me; I was not strong enough to hold this. And suddenly, I was tightly yoked with Jesus—and I could hold fast to Isaac, and Isaac could hold to the pinpoint of hope and light. I felt such patience and peace as I was with him, even as the plan to take away his life was shared in front of me.
Christ was there, and there were angels—my family members who have passed on: Ellen, Erma, Ann, Jack, Howard, Dale, and Annis, who were praying me up as I held the light for Isaac. Isaac found the will to look at the pinpoint and follow it. I found the will to amplify the pinpoint of light we found on Friday night...and help Isaac’s life improve.
Friends, The gospel is here, is true, and you will be free from this deep, deep hollow sorrow too. How? Because Christ the babe was born for you—for you!
Please know that we know we have only taken a few steps towards the light away from the abyss—the journey of healing his mental health is ahead of us, be we are turned in the right direction.
This morning, I found this pinpoint in this version of my favorite Christmas hymn over the weekend as I cared for my son who wanted to end his life, and I have held fast to it. There is no hope on earth, but there is hope in Christ—He is born for you. That pinpoint of hope is all my son has right now, and I will hold his hand as he holds to it. Christ is born for you.
My Isaac story