Can Awe and Panic Hold Hands?

The terrifying beauty of becoming a parent for the first time.

We’ve got four kids now, which basically makes us parenting pros—even though we still get those, “If that’s how you want to live your life…” looks. Honestly, if you can handle three, you can handle however many God sends. The Wood family is good at having kids. One of my brothers has six and has become a grandfather, and my other brother and his wife are expecting their sixth. Our Grandma Wood would be proud. The Wood name is safe.

However, our first kid changed everything.

None of that legacy was on my mind in late 2007 when I was just a young husband, not even thinking about diapers and cribs and midnight feedings.

My wife and I got married in 2006 after dating for several years. She made me wait longer than Laban made Jacob wait. And if you’re unfamiliar—Laban was the king of the bait-and-switch. Jacob worked seven years to marry Rachel, only to wake up next to her sister Leah. Then Laban said, “Oh, you wanted Rachel? Work another seven years.” Fourteen years for the one he loved.

Let’s just say, I didn’t quite clock 14 years, but I paid my dues.

We were still in the sweet spot of newlywed life—learning how to live with another human being who can’t fold towels right—when everything shifted.

Fast-forward to late 2007. I was working retail, grinding through the days, and Karen called me at work. She asked me to pick up a pregnancy test—just to “make sure.” So I grabbed a two-pack (on sale, because I’m thrifty) and brought it home.

I handed it off and went to change out of my shirt and tie. Before I could get the undershirt off, Karen screamed—not “there’s-a-burglar” scream or a “there’s a big spider”, but definitely a “something-life-altering-just-happened” scream.

I ran to the bathroom door.

“You okay?”

“It’s positive.”

Now look—I was a young, stupid newlywed. I didn’t know how this worked. So I said what felt right in the moment:

“Maybe it’s wrong. Try the other one.”

She did.

And let’s just say…she bowled another strike.

Karen stayed in the bathroom for a while. I silently sat on the bed, running through every adult responsibility I could think of. Then I whispered out loud, “I’m going to be a Daddy.”

When she came out, we hugged. We were excited—but it was a weird excitement. Like we’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket and had no idea what to do with it.

She called the doctor the next day to confirm things. They asked if she’d taken a test. Karen told them she’d taken two.

They replied with a chuckle, “You’re probably pregnant.”

Comforting, right?

We scheduled the appointment. I took the day off so I could be there. On the drive in, we had about a dozen conversations that ended with, “Are we ready for this?”

We got called back. Questions. Paperwork. Small talk. Then came the sentence that flipped the script:

“Let’s take a look at the little boy or girl.”

We hadn’t discussed ultrasounds yet. But in a matter of seconds, we were staring at a tiny peanut on a screen—with a flashing heartbeat and nubs for arms and legs.

Suddenly, we weren’t terrified. We were in awe.

The months rolled on. We watched our baby grow so fast. We bought the books. (Side note: What to Expect When You’re Expecting is the most terrifying thing ever written. Worse than anything by Bram Stoker or Mary Shelley. It should be called “The Many Things That Can Go Wrong With Your Pregnancy.”)

Eventually, we made it to delivery day. Our son Brighton was born. Somehow, some way, we just… knew what to do. We even looked at each other and said, “They’re actually letting us take this baby home?”

We kept thinking, “They’re actually going to let us take this baby home?” Like there should’ve been a background check or a quiz or something.

It was surreal. But it was also sacred.

That was four kids ago. Every child has come with new challenges and lessons. None of it has been easy. But we’ve gotten better—more seasoned. Not perfect. But purposeful.

Sometimes when I look back at that first blurry ultrasound, I still see the tiny peanut that flipped our whole world upside down. The little heartbeat that redefined what “responsibility” meant. The moment when our prayers turned into parenthood.

I once told a nervous dad-to-be not to worry. He asked if I had any advice. I said, “Yes. You’ll figure it out.” He looked at me like I had just handed him a fortune cookie.

So I explained it:
“I think God puts a parenting chip in your head. It’s dormant until the baby gets here. But that baby smell hits you like a switch. And somehow, someway, you figure it out.”

Lord knows, you can’t return them.

And somehow, over the years, we went from “What are we going to do?” to “We’ve got this”—not because we’re experts, but because God doesn’t call the qualified. He qualifies the called. Every child we've welcomed has stretched us, refined us, and reminded us that this whole thing is bigger than our comfort zones.

It’s not about being perfect parents. It’s about showing up, asking for help, laughing at the chaos, and thanking God for the grace to try again tomorrow.

We still get those looks—the ones that say, “If that’s how you want to live your life…” And yes. Yes, it is.

Because parenting isn’t about ease. It’s about purpose. And love. And yes, sometimes fear. But also about learning, one child, one day, one diaper at a time.

And if you're standing on the edge of that journey—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, staring at a pregnancy test or an ultrasound or a tiny sleeper that doesn’t seem real—hear this:

You’ll figure it out.
You’re not alone.
Your prayer life will grow astronomically.

But your heart? It’ll never be the same.

And if you’re standing at the start of that journey—terrified, excited, clueless—I want you to know: you’re not alone.

You’ll figure it out.

And chances are… that parenting chip’s already in you, just waiting to be activated.

God doesn’t call the qualified. He qualifies the called.

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