My son ran ferociously. Elbows bent, fists clenched, feet flying, and Batman cape flapping. Just inches from catching up to his big sister, a crack in the uneven sidewalk knocked him to the ground.
His jeans tore and his breath left him until his scream found voice and filled the air.
My knees were on the ground a second after his fall. He hoisted his toddler-sized body into my lap and open arms. Then, he wailed a solitary demand:
“Feel me better! Please, please feel me better, right now!”
I had nothing in my big ole mom purse to help him. Not a band aid, tube of ointment, or even a tissue.
How can this be? I thought. Of all the times for an epic purse fail, now is not it.
So I gave him all I could give and what he needed most of all in that moment: myself.
I held him tight, wiped away the tears that trickled down his plastic mask, and whispered “I’m here.”
His pleas continued. “It still hurts. Please do something to feel me better.”
So I gave him more of me.
I applied dozens of gentle kisses to his quivering chin, muddy palms, and bloodied knee. I sang. I rocked him. I pressed him tight against my chest, right there in the middle of the sidewalk.
People walked by. We sat. Quietly. Together. Both of us yearning for solace of one kind or another.
He sniffed, gulped, and whimpered.
I kept on holding him.
Soothing him with my voice, prayers, and love until he exclaimed,
“You did it mommy! You feeled me better! – But, I don’t want to run anymore, I just want to walk beside you.”
Then, with his hand in mine we walked slowly home. His uneven gait hinted that he wasn’t pain free, but my boy felt better than he did when his knees skidded across the concrete. He also felt all the emotions that accompany a loving response from a trusted ally: Safe, valued, and hopeful that full healing would come.
As I held my little man (who was three at the time, but will somehow be eight in less than two weeks *GASP*), I remembered so many of my own falls. Not the physical tumbles, although I’ve had numerous, but the emotional stumbles that wounded me deep, stole my oxygen, and pinned my head to my pillow.
Many times I have pleaded for God to take the pain away and make me feel better. Sometimes the pain dissipated quickly and other moments the pain remained and even grew despite my begging.
But regardless of how fast or slow agony recedes, God doesn’t let go of his children . The balm of his comforting truth and steadfast love is designed to bring solace to stinging, scraped spirits.
And when I am so shattered I can scarcely will the strength to ask for deeper relief, My savior pulls me closer. He offers me more of him until I’m able to walk … gingerly and still clenching His hand … feeling safe, loved, but better knowing the hope of healing.
“All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ.” – 2nd Corinthians 1:3-5 – NLT