He’s bawling, of course. Laying on the bottom bunk. Over-tired. He pulls his shirt up and as he scoots in reverse, he gets all demandy. “Mom, sing Jesus Loves Me and scratch my back.”
The same ritual we do every.single.night.
It’s summer. What can I say? Sleep is over-rated.
Until it’s not.
I’m next to him, fingers grazing soft skin while afternoon sun shines through bedroom blinds. And then he turns mean.
He’s chucking every stuffed animal (who all happen to be named Kai)- yes, all 21 frog, dolphin, bear, owl stuffed animals – at the foot of his bunkbed.
“I’M NOT TIRED,” he huffs through sobs, each word represented by a thrown animal. His feet are now a littered pile of mammals and birds. It’s almost comical except that he gets angrier when a chuckle escapes my throat. It’s enough to ruin his entire existence. “Stop laughing,” he orders.
“Sorry bud. I’m trying not to grin, I really am.”
“I don’t BELIEVE you.”
And then I’m taken back.
As I’m laying there trying to console my five-year old toward rest (even though he’s nowhere near tired) the thought crosses.
Does God do this with me? Does He see me when I get over-tired or cranky or reactive, when my five-year old self takes over? Does He attempt to comfort me with words, with a gentle touch, and I’m like, “Don’t touch me. I don’t need you. I don’t believe you. You’re mean.”
And He’s over here chuckling like, “There there, sweet Daughter. I’ve got you. I see you. Just rest. I’m here.” And I’m pushing Him away and focusing on the stupid circumstantial animals piled high all around, and I’m forgetting to turn around and see my Father and bury myself in His embrace and trust His words and know His peace.
I’m not that different than my youngest boy.
But sometimes he teaches me another perspective.
One where God sees the other side. And chuckles.