Inclining my heart
She's lying full-length on the floor, and she is sobbing. As far as I can tell, she is lamenting because she simultaneously wants and does not want a piece of cheese. I haven't denied her anything, corrected her for anything, or in fact thwarted any of her 18-month-old plans, and yet here we are: me, wilting piece of cheese in hand, staring down at a toddler in full, snot-and-tear-faced, spaghetti-limbed meltdown mode.
I have a range of options: correct her? Try to appease her? Create a long mental list of all the other things I'd like to be doing right now? I'm impeded by the knowledge that I have no idea why she is actually upset. She has no words yet, other than cheese, which is not apparently a present comfort.
And so I do what moms and grandmas and other caregivers do daily, sometimes hourly: I scoop her up, I try not to think of all the snot that is being transferred to my shirt, and I hold her. "It's going to be all right," I say, hopefully. "Nana loves you."
While we rock back and forth on the floor, I struggle with my own emotions. I am tired and impatient and cranky, myself. I am holding onto my cool only because I know that I kind of want to have my own meltdown and so I can identify with my little sad girl. Unfortunately, stretching full-length on the floor is both unattractive once one reaches one's thirties and currently impossible (too many toys). So we rock, and she cries, and I think.
And what comes to mind is that she is so little. She doesn't know why she's sad, any more than I do. For whatever reason, right now, everything is wrong. And she can't tell herself that a nap will make her feel better, or that maybe she just needs lunch, or maybe she misses her Papa and doesn't have words to communicate it. Everything is just wrong, and she doesn't know how to make it right.
And how often am I that way towards my Father in heaven? How many times does he look at me, figuratively in mid-meltdown, and think, "You know, it's not so bad. You're going to be okay. I love you."
He doesn't scold me (even though sometimes I probably deserve it). He doesn't punish me for making His day ridiculous (even though I would think sometimes I might). He inclines His ear to me. He remembers my frailty, my weakness, and the limits on my vision. He knows that sometimes even I don't know what I want or need, and so I'm just upset. And He holds me and waits for the tears to go away so He can help me do what I need to do.
I think of that afternoon often when the meltdowns come. Because remembering how much I have in common with a toddler, and how much I need to grow into the kind of parent that has a lot in common with Godliness.
I have a range of options: correct her? Try to appease her? Create a long mental list of all the other things I'd like to be doing right now? I'm impeded by the knowledge that I have no idea why she is actually upset. She has no words yet, other than cheese, which is not apparently a present comfort.
And so I do what moms and grandmas and other caregivers do daily, sometimes hourly: I scoop her up, I try not to think of all the snot that is being transferred to my shirt, and I hold her. "It's going to be all right," I say, hopefully. "Nana loves you."
While we rock back and forth on the floor, I struggle with my own emotions. I am tired and impatient and cranky, myself. I am holding onto my cool only because I know that I kind of want to have my own meltdown and so I can identify with my little sad girl. Unfortunately, stretching full-length on the floor is both unattractive once one reaches one's thirties and currently impossible (too many toys). So we rock, and she cries, and I think.
And what comes to mind is that she is so little. She doesn't know why she's sad, any more than I do. For whatever reason, right now, everything is wrong. And she can't tell herself that a nap will make her feel better, or that maybe she just needs lunch, or maybe she misses her Papa and doesn't have words to communicate it. Everything is just wrong, and she doesn't know how to make it right.
And how often am I that way towards my Father in heaven? How many times does he look at me, figuratively in mid-meltdown, and think, "You know, it's not so bad. You're going to be okay. I love you."
He doesn't scold me (even though sometimes I probably deserve it). He doesn't punish me for making His day ridiculous (even though I would think sometimes I might). He inclines His ear to me. He remembers my frailty, my weakness, and the limits on my vision. He knows that sometimes even I don't know what I want or need, and so I'm just upset. And He holds me and waits for the tears to go away so He can help me do what I need to do.
I think of that afternoon often when the meltdowns come. Because remembering how much I have in common with a toddler, and how much I need to grow into the kind of parent that has a lot in common with Godliness.