She’s quiet and content while I wrangle up some laundry. While I spray liquid allergy relief on sofas and pillows and beds and carpet. I sense her drifting off, her body slowly relaxing while I stay busy. Then I realize her head is down, her body quietly inhaling and exhaling. I grab some soup, some nourishment, and sit down for just a bit.
I feel her. Her still frame, her hot breath, completely at peace, at ease.
She sleeps on my back, in a baby carrier. Completely oblivious to all the things I’m doing, to all of the movements that my busy hands make. But she knows I’m there. She rests in perfect peace.
How is it that I am her rock? How is it that fragile, floundering me can possibly be her encouragement, her strength?
She wakes, balks a bit at the snugness, then gives in to rest, to sleep, again.
How often do I balk at the too-tight closeness of God? How often do I balk at His mercy, His love, His peace, only to finally give in to rest?
She will wake, will balk, will want put down. Or I will tire out from holding her and need my own rest. I lose patience, grow weary, and crave rest. For time on my own. Why do I balk at the One who wants to carry me? Balk at the One who can give me rest, grace, peace when I need it? All the time?
She doesn’t know God. She knows me. She knows her Mama and her Daddy. When we forget peace, when we decide we don’t want to listen or to do, she learns to balk from Him. To struggle and fight instead of lean in and rest.
It’s such a humbling thought: she learns who God is from us. She learns how to perceive God from how we teach about Him.
Am I ready to teach her, show her God? I know that I’ll never be ready if I’m trying to be perfect. But can I teach her to trust, to be humble, to rely and lean on Him? Can I teach her about faith, about love, about peace?
The only way I can teach is by acting it out. Daily. Hourly. Every moment will be taken into consideration, every act of mine will influence her walk with Him. Am I ready? I’ll never be.
I learn to lean and rest. Trust in the Everlasting Arms. Under the wing of the Almighty. In the safety of Him.
After all, He carries us.
|Abby being carried in my fancy-schmancy Ergobaby|