One of the most difficult things to accept about Brett's prognosis was being told that it was unlikely he would ever respond to us in any meaningful way. You mean we'll be tending to his every need (for the rest of our lives!) and never get so much as a smile in return? That seemed almost unbearable to me.

The day they gave us the "low down" on Brett, they ushered Bob and I into a little room with a long conference table. They put a box of Kleenex in front of us (not exactly a hopeful sign). Various specialists filed in and took seats around the table. Each of them spoke about Brett's deficiencies in their various fields of expertise. It was all way over our heads, they may as well have been speaking in Greek for all the sense it made to us. Bob never uttered one word. What was there to say? Thanks for being so thorough? For dashing every hope we might have had that you could have been wrong about him?

At the very end of their long technical spiel, they asked us if we had any questions and I asked if there was any chance he would be normal. The female neurologist that answered seemed very exasperated with me, as if I'd been caught not paying attention in class. Had I "checked out" or what? Of course there was no chance of his being normal. I didn't ask any more questions, it seemed to me like the less we understood the better we'd be able to accept it all.

I especially did not want to believe Brett was blind. As soon as we were able to bring him home from the hospital I plopped him in front of the television to "watch" Baby Einstein tapes. I played them over and over. "Doesn't it seem like he's watching it?" I'd ask everyone that came to see him. It's amazing how much you can talk yourself into believing something that you really, really want to believe.

He was about five months old when I took him to see the ophthalmologist. I was sitting in the examining chair with Brett on my lap while he took various items out of his little black bag. He had lights, bright colored cards, strips of black and white cloths and other trinkets. He peered into Brett's eyes and tried to get him to follow a light or track some of his gadgets. I could see that Brett wasn't passing any of the exercises.

"He doesn't seem very interested in them, does he?" I asked.

"It's not a matter of interest," the doctor answered. "It's a matter of instinct."

Whatever! He instinctively knows he's not interested, okay?

We were both silent as he put all his gadgets back in his bag and wheeled over to his computer to input the sad results. I've learned to sense when I won't like the answers, and so I don't ask the questions.

I knew it was time to stop playing the Baby Einstein tapes when I'd gone from wondering which one I thought he enjoyed the most to which one seemed to make him cry the least. Thinking of Brett's lack of response to us made me think of how guilty I am of not responding to God's devotion to me. Everyday my needs are met, mercies are given, grace is extended, encouragement is given (often in delightful and unexpected ways), and He is with me. Yet how often do I acknowledge Him throughout my day?

 I am quick to run to Him when sadness overwhelms me or worries overtake me, but what about the rest of the time? What's really cool about acknowledging God's goodness is that He has made us to benefit from it. Praise and thankfulness lift us up and strengthen us. Numerous current best sellers (Christian and secular alike) are now acknowledging the emotional and mental benefits of gratitude. "In everything give thanks; for this is God's will for us in Christ Jesus." (1 Thess. 5:18) God doesn't ask us to give thanks for everything but in everything, trusting in His sufficiency and promise to work it for good (Rom. 8:28) and He is very good at using broken pieces to make something beautiful.

I know I won't entirely see the beauty God is creating with Brett's "broken pieces" until I reach our eternal home, but for now, I will rest in the assurance of His promises.