A Mother/Father's Love and a Pumpkin Patch

Yes, that reads 33lbs. Thanks, Holly, for the great shot.
See above for example of small tantrum. I did force a photo shoot. How could I?

Yesterday I had the most meaningful experience to date as a parent. I'm not sure if I'll be able to capture it in words but I'd like to try.

It was time for Wyatt's nap and there was a crowd of people at my parent's house where we spent the weekend. I scooped him up and said my usual, "It's time for rest," and he went nuts. I think it was our first full blown fit/tantrum/I-don't-even-know-what-to-call-it. (To be clear, we have smaller ones all the time but something was different about this on.) As I carried him in my arms back to the bedroom, he flailed his arms and arched his back while screaming, "No, no, no, no, no..." and crying hysterically. We got to the bedroom and I closed the door behind us. (The best part of my parent's house is the unusually high placement of all doorknobs.)

The screaming picked up at this point, as he realized that the rest was, indeed, going to happen. I didn't know what to do (Garett's the patient parent) and quickly debated between two options. 1. I can lay him down in his bed quickly and let him cry it out. I figured he was crying anyway and a little extra crying wouldn't hurt. 2. I was second-guessing the speed with which we went from playing to resting and thought, maybe, I could just take him out to say goodbye and ease into the rest a little more gently.

Neither option seemed good so I decided to try something new. I figured it couldn't hurt and asked God to give me a little boost of energy to hang in there with my writhing-on-the-floor boy. By this time he was hitting his head against the door, still screaming. I found a book in the closet with Bible stories in rhyme and began to read it quietly. From time to time, I would get up from my chair and go over to him and say something like, "Wyatt, I love you so much. I am sad to see you so sad. It is time for a rest." This continued for maybe 10 minutes.

As I read and spoke gently to him, he began to turn his body toward me. After the turn, he would take one step and then stop. He slowly moved toward me sitting in the chair reading while he continued gurgling through his tears. Finally, he got to me and asked me to lift him up. He was still crying but beginning to melt a bit. At last, he nestled his head into my chest, held his blanket close and listened to the book. We read for quite some time, as I soaked in what had just happened, and hoped the tears would subside.

Watching Wyatt's process reminds me of how I desire to be in relationship with God. Not the tantrum part (although, sometimes it is my reality) but the moving toward our loving, long-suffering Father, still hurting, perhaps, and unsure of how things will turn out but moving toward nonetheless. I picture God loving me with his perfect mix of grace and truth, delighting in me as I am and transforming me into who he wants me to be. The transforming nature of the gospel compels and inspires new ways of being and responding to pain. In that moment, I got a tiny glimpse of the transforming power of love and I think God allowed this experience for that reminder.