Hard Lovin’

I could hear Jase coughing from my room.  The night was black and I was tired and I lay there hoping he would quiet down and get back to sleep on his own.  I was deep down, low-in-the-soul tired and I knew he was too.  Selfishly, I just wanted to get back to sleep, but instead I dragged out of bed and down the hall to his room.  


When I got there I knew he was having an allergy/asthma attack.  So, I took my wheezing, coughing,  straining little guy into the bathroom, shut the door, turned on the hot shower and sat down with my baby boy on my lap.  Steam filled the room, and Jase got mad.  Jase got really, really mad.  All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep.  I was the clear enemy, thwarting every possibility he had of gaining his sole desire.  


He hit me, kicked me and pulled my hair.  “I HATE this!  Let me out!  Let me out!  Let me out!!!!” he continually screamed.  You know that John Lennon song about his mom and dad and how much pain they have inflicted on him?  The one where he just screams at the end, gutteral and full of agony?  This was Jase’s version of that song.  He was going primal scream on me.


But, what could I do?  The only way for me to get his airways relaxed was to put him in the steamy room, no matter how torturous it was for him at three o’clock in the morning.  So I endured the abuse, the accusations of a five-yeat-old, the hot and pointed declarations of blame from the child I cherish.  Any mama would do the same.  There is just no other way.  A spoonful of sugar is not always helpful when the medicine is so dark and seems strange and unknown.


The whole scene is a big stack of burnt toast.  For Jase it is goodness hidden in something unfamiliar that seems horrific and painful.  For me the burnt toast is the burden to cause my child pain for a moment, knowing that he is misinterpreting my actions as cruel and uncalled-for.  To be doing good and yet be called evil is a heavy weight to bear for one you love.


And isn’t that the story of God and us?  Hasn’t He had to hold us down, push us into places so that we could have the chance to find spiritual healing in pain and discomfort?  Didn’t He allow Himself to become the hidden good, the pearl of great price, the misunderstood Messiah, accused of evil while doing the greatest good ever accomplished?  Does He owe us more than that?  Should we scream at Him when we hate this place He has brought us?  Anger and blame can’t bring us through to the golden moment of understanding.  We may be too tired to handle life, but handle it we must.  


Once Jase could breathe normally, he calmed down.  The poor thing lay down on the floor, exhausted and sweaty from the fight.  I picked him up and carried my limp little guy back to his bed.  I changed his clothes and tucked him in.  Then I told him, “I am so sorry that was so hard for you.  I will always love you.  I will always take care of you.  You are my sweet little boy.”


When it seems you can’t bear another moment of life’s pressing darkness, listen for His voice.  He is saying the same words to you that I said to Jase.  He is sorry it is hard.  He loves you.  You are His.  There is goodness for you in whatever life brings you when your life is submitted to God.  Though He slays you, hope in Him.