This week our prompt is: tender.
My arm falls asleep only three minutes into rocking her, and her wails seem to echo in my small apartment and I worry, for the first time, that I really might never hear quiet again. And she's just four months and I am with her for two hours, just so that mom can meet with students, send emails, type with both hands on the keyboard.
So this little one and I rock, my feet in their silver Toms sliding against the carpet, and my voice cracked as I sing softly that I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back, the less I give, the more I get back... because The Civil Wars calm us both to sleep.
She is so strong, eyes laughing at my smile, arms flailing against my chest when we both know what she needs is mom but all she has is weak, small, insufficient me. And so we rock, arms asleep and weary, and suddenly, without warning:
She nestles into my chest, puts her small sweet face up against my skin, and I can feel her breathing, feel that pulse of life beat relentlessly in her chest and I realize that she carries me, in her softness and her helplessness and her need. She carries me, because my heart has been opened and widened beyond what I believed was possible, and it hurts a bit as it grows, and I keep wondering if the tenderness of the questions will ever become strong.
But she is the strong one in my living room.
Her tiny fingers grip the edge of my sweater and she breathes life back into me and I realize that sometimes the messengers of God's love are only four months old and they only have one thing to say and it is this:
His love for you is big enough to fill your heart.