Eyes On Me

Our sweet Moses is such a happy little guy.

Sometimes I feel like he's smiling as big as he is, simply because he can't smile any bigger.  Just last night, he was practicing his newest feat--walking--and was cackling to himself as he toddled around.  Plump cheeks split wide by a one-toothed grin (he's had one tooth, and only one tooth, for almost two months!), while giggles gurgled up from inside--one chubby foot in froth of the other, wibbling and wobbling and catching his balance again as he explored the house and explored his new ability.

But he wasn't always this way.

His first six months were pretty rough.  He had gastric reflux--which means that the acid in his stomach that was meant to break down his food escaped "upstream" and instead attacked his esophagus.  Not a pleasant feeling.  Yet it took his nurse-mommy six months to put the pieces together, figure out what the problem was, and get him started on the God-sent medicine that turned poor Moses into a whole different baby once he finally had relief.

But before the medicine, he seemed like he was always hurting.  No, he wasn't one of those babies who cry for hours upon hours.  But he was fussy.  He spit up an awful lot.  He didn't sleep well.  He squirmed and arched his back while he ate, as if he was starving and yet didn't want to eat, all at the same time.

Mostly, though, he just wasn't...happy.We had to work so hard to get a smile out of him, and those we got were short-lived.  He hardly laughed.

It was so sad.

One thing that sticks out the most when I look back is the way he refused to take his eyes off me.  No matter where he was in the room, I knew that if I looked at him, he'd be intently looking back.  From Mema's (my mom's) arms.  From G's (my husband's mom's) arms.  From his high chair.  From his play mat.  If I set him down with his toys, he wasn't interested; he didn't play.  He just looked at me with his big, unblinking brown eyes, with this heart-breaking look that silently cried, "Help me!"

He wanted me.

He had to have known that being in my arms wouldn't take away the burning pain.  He knew that my nearness wouldn't dissolve the physical hurt.  But he wanted me anyway.  He wanted to be as near as he could to the one who loved him and brought him into this world.  He knew my voice, my smell, the sway he would feel as I walked and held him.  And all these things, familiar things, would be comforting to him.  My nearness brought comfort.  Comfort in the midst of the pain.

Have you ever had a pain like that?

An ever-present pain.  One you just can't shake.  You don't need anything to remind you of it because it's always there.  Maybe a physical pain.  Or maybe...a soul-pain.  A heaviness, an ache, a heartbreak that won't heal.

Funny thing about pain.  It reminds you of a need.  A need for comfort...for a nearness to a Comforter.  That's the good thing about constant pain.  It constantly reminds you of your need for God.  I know that the times in my life when I've been hurting the most are the times that I keep my eyes most steadily on my God.  All day long, under my breath, I'll be praying...usually nothing much more profound than "Help me, God!  Help me!"  But it's the kind of cry that comes from deep, deep inside, growing out of a breaking heart.  It's times like these that I long for God most consistently, most incessantly, most all-day-long, than any other.  I don't know what else to do.  I just know I want to be near to God.

I want God.

I know, mostly likely, He won't magically, instantly cure the hurt.  I know He probably won't dissolve the pain.  But I want Him anyway.  His love, His promises, His gentle whisper.  His nearness.  I know without a doubt that His nearness may not solve my problem, but His nearness will bring comfort.

Comfort in the midst of the pain.

"We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You." --2 Chronicles 20:12