Advent Ache

I sit on the kitchen floor with my back against the fridge, rocking my two-year-old little boy. I should take off his gross clothes, I think, but I keep rocking.

Near my feet the contents of his stomach lay splattered.

I am too shaky to worry about it yet.  Right now, I am just relieved to see no signs of pills ingested. I hold the hands that opened the bottle that could have brought him death. 

We rock, and I am amazed that he is soothed by me, the very one that was causing him to cry a moment ago. I stroke his hair, and my finger aches from where he bit me.  I would bite too, if someone were shoving their finger down my throat and I couldn't understand why.

I curse this world that threatens and tortures even the little ones.  I shake the fist of my heart at death and his continual harassment.
Sometimes I hate this place.

I thank God quietly.  I am shaky even in relief.  I cower, too, before my God Who giveth--the God Who has every right to take away.

But He giveth, even now, in this slimy breathing child curled up on my lap.

I am not entitled to even one more moment with any one of these sweet babies, and yet, He giveth.

Grace upon grace is this child in my lap.

It will not always be this way, God gently reminds me. He lifts my eyes and teaches me to hope for that day. The darkness is passing away.

I am soothed by the same God that allowed me to cry a moment ago.  He came, and He still comes, into this filthy place, and He is making all things new.

Come, Lord Jesus.