A faint cry from the bedroom gets me racing to check on my 17-day-old son, Enoch.
He’s fidgeting, flailing his arms, kickin’ his legs and lets out in exasperation a near-deafening cry that demands 110% of my attention and observation skills.
The mosaic of a million different expressions on his face that changes every nanosecond makes me second-guess and third-guess the prescription that I gave myself a second ago.
Is he wet, soiled, hungry, stuffed (nose), hot - or all at the same time?
But no matter what condition he might be in - he simply cries.
I talk to him and reassure him that I’m there for him.
I gently pat him and sing him my bass-version of lullaby that’s supposed to soothe him.
I pick him up and lay him across my chest and rub him to help him either burp or fart.
I lay him down on the changing-table and get ready to check & change his diapers.
He cries all the more. With every ounce of milk he has sucked in his last feeding session w/ his mom.
He simply cries.
Crying is all he can do.
He sees me. He knows I’m there. He know I’ll help him and do whatever it takes to give him comfort, peace, and rest.
But he cries.
Because crying is all he can do when he’s wet, soiled, hungry, stuffed uncomfortable, frustrated and etc.
I think of how much my crying God has put up with.
How much of my incessant, loud, obnoxious, not-knowing-when-to-stop crying - He has endured.
At every turn of discomfort - I’d keep crying till He’d somehow come and make it go away. Like my son, Enoch.
The desperate and helpless cry would never fail to reach the ears my heavenly Father. He’d be there, every time to reassure me of His presence.
The divine pat or the rub - would always put me at ease and help me to surrender and fall back to sleep in His arms of love.
When crying was all I could do - it was enough to awaken and summon the presence of my heavenly Father.
As the psalmist testifies: