Why shouldn’t it be?

I’m holding your hand and I’m walking right beside you, Kevin. Don’t you see that?

The problem wasn’t God’s lack of care, it was Kevin’s desire to control and his pride.

I’m a grown man who doesn’t need his hand held and shouldn’t be this paranoid and scared about life and these twins.

Kevin tried to let go and see the truth he’d always been taught in the church: that God was watching over Jenny. God could see every tiny little cell of those boys inside of her. He knew their names and how fast their hearts pulsed and how long they would live and what they would do with their lives.

But I don’t know and I’m scared, God—I’m honestly terrified.

Then he imagined God’s hand, so firm and so strong. A hand that wouldn’t let him step out in front of a moving car, a hand that wasn’t going to let him bolt ahead, a hand that held him safe and secure.

But I’ve made it clear for some time that I didn’t want my hand held. What then? Does God finally let go?

Sometimes he saw others whose faith resembled a warm blanket, covering them in security from the cold winter’s night. Jenny’s faith was like that—steady, silent, and secure. Kevin’s faith was more like a bedsheet that had been mauled by a stray, hungry dog. It was barely there anymore, hanging together by tiny threads.

Kevin kept thinking of it as he entered the hospital and went to find Jenny. “Please, God,” he prayed again, “give us some good news.”

Statements like this were uttered all the time as easily as “Good morning” and “See you later.” They were tossed out like pennies into a fountain.

Kevin hoped that these prayers were a little more valuable. That they would be heard and somehow answered.

An hour later, as Kevin and Jenny sat in the doctor’s office, he thought that maybe his prayers had gotten stuck in the busy traffic of holiday prayers. He sat holding Jenny’s hand, seeing the tears on her cheeks and the desperate look in her eyes. He sat trying to be strong but knowing that it was just an act for her, knowing he needed to try to convince Jenny that he wasn’t absolutely terrified.

It was the news that they’d feared the most.

Baby B wasn’t growing.

They had hoped that perhaps Baby B was a late bloomer, but the measurements told a more alarming story. The weight discrepancy between A and B had increased. Even the always-positive Dr. Kalchbrenner seemed more reserved and more careful about the words he spoke.

“We’ve talked about this before, but since you elected not to have an amniocentesis done, there are certain things we can’t rule out. We can still do one if you want us to.”

“No,” Jenny quickly said. “We already decided—we’ve gone this long without getting one.”