The Awful

There is something Awful that happens in my home on a daily basis.

The Awful needs to be bathed in prayer; before, during, after... but I didn't know that right away...

When the moment came, I used to cry, call out to God, my husband, my children, but the words were nonsense, panicky. Heart would pound crazily and body would shake. Afterwards, I always wished I could have stayed calm, that I could be the rock He is, and everyone would swim to me to cling, to rest. But instead, I was a cyclone, pulling panic in my wake and kicking up dust and dirt.

And in the quiet that followed the Awful, I would rock back and forth and whisper, Help me... Help me to be steady. Help me to see...

And slowly, He did. I began to see.

But first, the cry. Then... nothing.

Running to my Little Man, I drop to my knees and lay him gently on his back, even as his lips begin to turn purple. His back arches and his eyes are wide in a panic, but I rub his chest and tummy to soothe.

And I close my eyes, but I can see.

I see the mamas in broken Haiti, wondering where their babies will be found, and if, even.

I see the mamas in starving and war-torn Africa, Ethiopia, Darfur, wondering how they will feed their babies today.

I see the mamas in diseased hospital rooms, wondering when their babies will breathe their last breath.

And in my own fearful moments, I pray for them. For the mama who holds her baby dying of cancer. For the mama who holds her baby dying of hunger. For the mama whose arms are empty.

Because I know that our Awful will pass. And theirs will not.

So when Little Man finds his air again, I scoop his limp body close to my chest and our hearts beat together and

I inhale him until all of my air is gone.

Until he pushes away from me and toddles off to bring me a book or find his favorite ball or chase after his big brother who is as relieved as anyone to hear the laughter and shrieking coming from our Little Man.

And I am Awe-Full, now, that He opened my eyes in this way and now I am a lake of calm while my children float past in their own peace, and my slow breathing and peaceful smile and gentle movements flow effortlessly, under His great mercy.

Ten seconds, perhaps twenty, and it is over. But I continue to kneel, knowing no names, only hearts. And I pray for every nameless Mama who mourns.

Because He sees the Awful, too.

And His comfort is for us all.