Baby Phillips was a week old when I drove to Hamilton County Court for a custody hearing and left the court with paperwork in hand and headed directly to the state hospital.
I settled on Nathanael and secured the spelling from the New American Standard Bible and the account of Jesus’ encounter with New-Testament-Nathanael around the intersection of 38th Street and Lafayette Road. I knew intuitively that our Nathanael would be edgy and gentle; I wanted his name to be both strong yet sweet.
I reached the hospital and a social worker directed me to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
What kind of baby will you reject?
Do you want to be his dad or not?
A nurse met me at large glass doors and led me on a holy walk among clusters of cribs in a ward that was home to at least a dozen babies – some were hooked to monitors and special lighting and humming and throbbing machines – in need of highcare. My heart gave a little is-this-my-son skip as we approached each crib. Whispering as we walked, the nurse said my son was a ward favorite and said she’d watched Baby Phillips’s mother care, hold, love him, and kiss him gently on the forehead and then watched her talk with him and cuddle him, care for him until she left the hospital for her difficult life.
I recognized Nathanael when we stopped at his crib. He had the full head of hair I predicted. I spelled out N-A-T-H-A-N-A-E-L for the nurse who had flipped the card above the crib and wrote Nathanael on the reverse side of Baby Phillips and, with that, he was my responsibility and a new member of our family.
This was my son and I took charge and so I stripped him and wiped him down, changed his diaper and dressed him with the baby clothing I had purchased from the K-Mart on Lafayette Road on the way to meet him while his name was still forming within me.
I held Baby Phillips close to me and whispered all I had rehearsed into his ear.
You, little one, belong. You belong with us. Your name will be Nathanael. We belong with you. You have a home. You are not alone. I am going to take you to your house and to your brother. I love you. You will be loved by people all over the world. Nathanael, you are a gift from Heaven, a gift from God. You are not alone. As soon as the doctor gives us permission we are going home. Your days of being alone are over.
A neighbor brought Thulani to the hospital and, when Nathanael and I emerged from the ward Thulani greeted us with a cartwheel he’d practiced for the occasion.
News of Nate’s adoption did not surprise anyone and he was neither late nor early.
It was as if he’d been wandering in the wings of the universe and decided it was time to come home. Nate slept soundly in his bassinet until we could retrieve and assemble the crib from under the basement stairs.
Nathanael was home.