I was desperate to hear from Him, the One who knows my deepest desire, knows that my heart has been asking and seeking and knocking … and was now frustrated ...
Clearly, the masterpiece she envisioned was not materializing. Her frustration was palatable. Sitting directly behind her, head bowed low, knees pressed firm into the kneeler, I was firmly planted into my own self- prescribed pity party. I was desperate to hear from Him, the One who knows my deepest desire, knows that my heart has been asking and seeking and knocking … and was now frustrated with the seeming silence. I had looked up when the worn mama with the babies dripping off her sides slipped into the pew in front of me.
One of her littles carried the same crown of mahogany hair as did my Catherine and, as I would soon find out, shared my fiery spirit.
It didn’t take long before I was caught between my own pleadings and an ensuing creative catastrophe playing out in real time. It started with the wrong-hued crayon leading to a mishmash of chaotic color choices. Frantic scratching to try and blend shades did nothing but result in torn paper. The mahogany-crowned little one flicked the paper and dropped the crayon. It seemed she, like me, had discovered herself at the ledge of deferred hope, and was all but jumping.
Clearly the worn mama had experienced this boiling point before. Unphased, she sat down on the edge of the pew and tucked her arm around the little one’s stiff body. The mama did not flinch; she did not reprimand between clenched teeth and forced smile. She gathered up her seething child, collected the flung paper and tossed crayon.
Her stillness seeped into the stiff-bodied artist. Before too long the fiery little one whimpered and softened. The mama tucked her baby in her arms and rocked her ever so slightly. The little one’s arms locked around her worn mama’s body as she tucked her head into the crook of her mama’s neck, and not so subtly whispered, “I want to go home.” And I, now fully immersed in the scene playing out in front of me, thought, “Me too baby girl.”
A few minutes passed before the worn mama leaned into her baby and whispered in her ear, “I know.” In that moment, at least for now, the door on which I was knocking was opened …that which I was seeking was found … the not subtle question I had been asking was answered.
With knees pressed firmly into the kneeler, I tilted my head bowed low ever so slightly as if it was tucked into the crook of my Shepherd’s neck in a knowing, “He knows.”
This is part of the series called “The Human Being Fully Alive” found here.