I remember reading somewhere that a baby’s cry is designed to be specifically uncomfortable to its own mother. In a hospital nursery where several babies are crying at once, it’s YOUR baby’s cry that will cause your milk to let down. It’s YOUR toddler’s cry that will propel you across a playground to rescue your little one and kiss his broken skin.
What nobody told me was that this never changes. That when my teenager or my adult child cries over a broken heart or over circumstances that are trying in the extreme, I would still feel my body course with adrenaline, ready to annihilate the enemy and make everything right. But, long gone are the days when the milk of my body or my kisses are enough to fix my children’s problems.
It is a difficult thing to not be enough.
Not wise enough. Not powerful enough. Not even whole enough to avoid mixing my own insecurities and hurts in with theirs.
Thing is, they have a Father who IS enough. Wise enough. Powerful enough. Whole enough. So why do I work SO hard to fix things myself? Why do I lie awake for hours stewing over them, worrying…repeatedly rehearsing ways I have failed them…things I wish I had done differently?
I don’t trust Him.
I know God has used the dark, desperate places in my life to rid me of delusion, to create a fertile place in me for grace, to bring me healing. If this is true, why would I take every painful experience from my children if I could?
I am learning to divert some of my worry time to prayer. I wish it were my first resort. It is not. Yet. I am choosing to open my heart to the possibility that God has good for my babies in the hurt they walk through. To dream of what that might look like. I am learning to whisper hope over them as I hold their sobbing bodies. To gently remind them that there is One who loves them even more than I. Who is relentless in bringing beauty from ashes.
Some days are better than others. This has been a week of other.
Lord I believe. Help my unbelief.