His small hand reaches up and grabs at my cheek. That tiny little hand who once moved within me moves and squirms in my arms. His body slowly calms within my tight embrace, and I listen to his rhythmic breathing–his own heart beating against my own.
Turn your eyes upon Jesus.
The song comes to memory and I remember that Mary too once held her baby as he teethed and cried and refused to sleep. Perhaps she too occasionally had a heart full of frustration.
Or perhaps she knew that one day she too would need Him like the rest of humanity.
Asa has needed me more the last few days. Really, if I’m being honest it’s been weeks. This tiny twenty-pound human we created and have the gift of raising–he’s screamed and cried if we even walk away.
He has not yet learned that his mother and father will never leave him to suffer.
The other afternoon I grew tired and frustrated every time I’d walk away and hear his shrill, high pitch cry. Disgruntled, I picked him up and laid him on my bed.
“I’m here, Asa. I’m here. I’m here.” I repeated it over and over as my voice and heart softened. He grabbed at my face and his tears slowed down.
I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. He whispered– my own Father.
How many times a day do I cry out, lacking the faith that He’s never far and always present? How many times a day do I let fear fill my heart and forget all the times He’s never failed me?
How many times have many of us these last weeks neglected to hear His soft, still voice reminding us that He’s in all things–our very present help in time of need?
Turn your eyes upon Jesus.
How I respond to the panic around me determines who I trust. How I respond to aches and pains and ailments determines who I trust. How I respond to the unknown of the future determines who I trust.
And how I respond to the very heavy burden of what is happening in our world right now determines who I trust.
We are carrying the burden of much fear right now. We sit at night and talk about what the next weeks and months will look like. I see in my husband’s eyes the worry at what his hospital will look like in a few weeks. We worry about our family and friends whose lives are being affected. I anxiously wonder when I will be able to do anything but sit in my house with my seventh month old–when I will get to visit my family and see my friends. I know you have your own set of fears and frustrations.
But thank God that we are not given a spirit of fear.
We can choose to remember that God is in it all. Even if we have to remind ourselves every day or every hour or even every minute.
I’m here. I’m here, He’s telling us.
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace.
What a promise. What a gift.