Sep 16, 2013

My son nearly made me cry

Sometimes I call myself a budding theologian.  I've been through undergraduate and graduate school, read more books than many women 200 years ago (and many women today) would have been allowed near, have been to different countries, am well-versed in Biblical history and theological importance, yadda yadda yadda.

My 1-year-old son totally schooled me.  He nearly made me cry.

He nearly made me cry because one simple little act contained so much theological importance that my heavy heart could barely handle the tangible "I love you" God sent through my son.

You see, I've had a rough few months.  No, I'm not gonna go into the gritty details here and now.  Let's just say that a fair share of bad news has come my way in the past couple of months.  I also work with children from difficult homes with psychological disorders.  Hard times and stress surround me on a daily basis.  Being the emotional sponge that I am, those hard times and stress became my hard times and stress.

(Right now fly buzzing around my head is causing me hard times and stress, but of a different sort.)

I work a lot, so during the workweek I'm lucky to get two hours with my son every day because for now one or the other of my two jobs claims the rest of my time as our little family focuses on getting Dahmon (my husband) through graduate school.  In the evenings, Drexel and I have a routine: bathtime, changing into jammas, songs/cuddles, sleepy time.

A month ago I underwent minor surgery to remove what turned out to be a ganglion cyst from my left foot.  This surgery left behind a 2 inch scar that is still healing, so it is rather red and still sore.

During bathtime, Drexel (the cutie patootie on the left) generally decides bathwater looks better on the floor, and does his level best to test this theory.  Momma (me) disagrees with Drexel and does her level best to avert his determined efforts to moisten the floor (suddenly I'm thinking of Gideon and his dew-soaked floors....).  Generally this is attempted by me putting my foot or hand in the tub as a target for Drexel's water cup.

A couple of days ago, I stuck my left foot in the tub.  The foot with the scar.  This was a day I was feeling particularly down in the dumps and crabby.  Drexel usually just dumps water on my foot and gleefully goes about re-filling the water cup he plays with in the tub.  This day, he grabbed my foot, looked at me, turned my foot until he could see the new scar (which up until that point was facing the other direction), and then poured the water on my foot.

Jesus washed the feet of his disciples.

My son not only washed my foot, but intentionally washed my new scar.

Despite my failings and all the screw-ups that have been my fault the last few weeks, God still loves.  In the midst of the chaos, hurt, and confusion, God is still there whispering "give me your scars, I'll wash you bright as new."

God spoke through a 1 year old who thought he was just playing.

The Kingdom belongs to such as these...