Thea went through a time recently where she’d figured out how to stand up but not sit back down. Believe me, this is a worrisome way to live. Her crib (her bed, not her bachelorette pad as seen on MTV) posed the most difficulty. I’d put her down for her nap and she’d scoot around in the dark, pleased as punch at her newfound mobility. The crowning moment, when she would pull herself up to stand, would be such fun for a few minutes. There she’d stand, the queen of her chubby-thighed realm, taking stock of the rocking chair, the whimsical wall art, the stack of clean diapers ready for destruction. Lots of toothy grinning, singing, general baby glee:
But legs that pudgy aren’t used to prolonged exercise, people, and the sheen quickly wore off. What to do, when a girl can’t sit down? How long must one cling with dimpled hands to the crib railing, crying out for help to anyone who would hear? In the days of baby monitors, not long. I’d open the door and rescue the child, tucking her knees and helping her lay down again. And again. And again. We’re talking five, six, seven times I’d go in, each time seeing the poor child with tears streaming down her face, nose running, head propped on the railing to hold her tired body up. The bags under her eyes were like those of a crack addict only a bit cuter. Still, totally pathetic.
All Thea needed was sleep and she was in the right place to get it. Quiet, dark, cool room, safe from the perils of the outside world, like older siblings and heavy metal music. Perfect conditions, but man-oh-man, what resistance.
So this got me to thinking about my own crack-addict tendencies and God. (And I wonder why my books are greeted with caution at Christian bookstores?!) I do the same darn thing as my daughter when it comes to worrying over things in my life. I’ve been particularly fretful lately, and not just about rodents. Am I a good mother? Does Marc still think I’m beautiful? How about cute? Will my next book sell enough copies to make everybody happy? Will my friend’s marriage survive infidelity? Can I raise my children to love God and love people when the world is gross and menacing?
See what I mean? But here’s the beauty: God is God and I am not. He has never, that I can recall, asked me to take over for Him. I am His child and have been given a sweet, quiet place to rest, right in the bottomless of expanse of His grace. So I suppose if I’m hell-bent on propping myself up, fighting through tears of frustration, I can insist on worrying through this week. OR I can take a deep breath, blow my nose, and get back to dirtying diapers, which is just what I’m meant to do. Oops. Mixing metaphors a bit. Sorry. At any rate, I’m resolving again in this moment to take a seat, bend my own pudgy knees, and trust God to be the One that gives me rest.