This pair of stories was inspired by a conference I attended and Psalm 131. The speaker discussed "sitting in Jesus' lap" and quieting our soul. Just as a mother comforts her child, so Jesus longs to comfort us. Not just when things are "too marvelous," but in all the everyday sorrows of our hearts.
1 O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
too great and too marvelous for me.
2 But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
3 O Israel, hope in the Lord
from this time forth and forevermore.
The snow fell in big, puffy, white flakes – the kind that looked more like cotton balls or dandelion puffs than the crystalline figure you see in store windows. The world was blanketed in white. Wet lumps of winter majesty weighed down the trees. Little footprints and angelic forms disturbed the glittering carpet that covered the ground.
I glanced at the clock and realized that my little Sydney had been outside for too long.
“Sydney!” I called out the back door. “Time to come in.”
At first, I heard nothing but giggles, but then a heavily garmented figure shuffled around the corner of the house. Sydney dragged her feet through the snow, leaving what appeared to be train tracks behind her. She stepped inside while I closed the door, shutting out the chill air.
“Let me help you get undressed, sweetie.”
“No, mommy, no. I’m cold.”
Sydney tried to wiggle away from my outstretched hands and wrapped her little arms around her puffy coat.
“Sydney.”
Her green eyes flashed with a fierce determination. “No, mommy. I’m cold. I need to keep my jacket on to warm up.”
“Well, at least let me brush some of this snow off your coat.” I reached out again, but Sydney sidestepped my efforts.
“No, mommy. I like the snow. The snow is my favorite.”
“Honey, the snow makes you wet, which makes you colder.”
She shook her head from side to side. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“NO!” She stomped her foot. “The snow is my friend. It doesn’t make me cold.”
“Sweetie, just because you love the snow and it is pretty, doesn’t mean that being covered in it is good for you.”
“Yes, it does. I like pretty things.”
I could see that I was getting nowhere and by now the snow had melted off her jacket into a puddle on the mat anyway.
“Well, let’s just start with your mittens then.”
Sydney looked down at her mittens and studied them before answering. “Just one.”
“Ok.” I reached out and pulled off her right mitten. It was wet through, and her tiny fingers were frozen. “Oh, honey.” I took her little pink hand and rubbed it. “Your fingers are so cold. Did you take your gloves off outside?”
“Only for a little bit.”
“Sydney, the mittens help you stay warm and protect your hands. You need to keep them on when you are outside.” I breathed on her fingers to bring them back to life.
She giggled. “That tickles, mommy.”
“How about we take off the other mitten now.”
“NO!” She put her hand behind her back and out of my reach.
“Sydney.” I gave her my best you’re-not-listening-which-makes-me-unhappy look.
“Ok,” she grumbled.
I tugged on her mitten, which slid off to reveal her fist clenching a thick fat icicle.
“Look, mommy, an icicle,” she said gleefully, holding up the melting ice before my nose. “I found it hanging on my playhouse. I love it. I’m going to keep it in my room – in my jewelry box – forever. I want to sleep with it tonight.”
“Sweetie, that is very beautiful, but icicles are outside things. They need to stay outside where they belong. Remember?”
“No. It’s mine. I want to keep it. It sparkles. I like sparkly things.”
“But, Sydney, it is not going to stay the same inside. It is going to melt.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Yes, it will.”
“NO!” Tiny tears formed in her eyes as she clutched the shrinking treasure.
“Look honey,” I said pointing to her hand. “It is smaller already. See.”
Sydney looked down at the icicle intently. Tiny drips slipped between her fingers and onto her wrist.
“Why?” she whispered, asking the icicle instead of me.
“Because ice is frozen water,” I said while unzipping her jacket, hoping her focus would stay on the icicle long enough for me to get her undressed. “God makes the water into beautiful shapes in the winter, but they are not meant to last forever. We get to enjoy them for just a little bit.”
“Why?” she asked again, refusing to lift her arm so I could slide her jacket off.
“Because for snow and ice to last forever, then winter would last forever, and we would miss enjoying spring or summer.”
“I like summer.”
“Me too. Lift your arm.”
Sydney slowly lifted her arm, and I tugged the wet sleeve off and over her shoulder.
“Turn,” I said giving her a little push.
She looked down at the sliver in her hand. “Poor icicle. I named her Icy.”
“That is a perfect name. Boots.”
“Icy is gone,” Sydney said with her head hung down, unwilling to lift her foot.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but there will be other icicles.”
“I don’t want other icicles. I want Icy.”
I looked at Sydney so sad and depressed over the melting of ice. A lost treasure. A treasured imaginary friend. What could I say?
“Do you need a hug?”
Sydney leaned into me, her little arms hanging limp at her side. Water from her hat and soggy hair soaked into my shirt, but I hugged her tighter and rubbed her back.
“You want some hot chocolate?” I asked after a time.
“Yeah!” She pulled back and kicked off her boots. Then she dashed around me to the kitchen.
“Wait, your snow pants!” I called after her, gathering up the wet clothes and mopping up the water off the floor with a towel. “Don’t sit on any furniture.”
* * *
My creation dazzled. The air, filled with my spirit, twirled snowflakes in an intricate dance, tickled the trees, and froze icicles into sparkling shapes. I saw my happy children at play, enjoying the world I created for them. My heart swelled with joy at the rare moment of peace.
Renee.
Her name came to my mind, and I looked out to see her bundled up, trudging through the deep snow, creating her own train tracks. Her head hung down, heavy with burdens. She needed to visit me.
“Renee! Please come in,” I called.
Approaching my porch, she took measured steps to avoid slipping and shivered though her clothes should have protected her from the chill. I opened the door to welcome her inside. Once the warmth hit her face, her shoulders relaxed, and she sighed. She stood tentatively on the threshold.
“Come in,” I beckoned, arms outstretched. “Take off your jacket and get warm.”
She stepped inside, wrapped her hands around herself, and rocked back on her heels. “No, Jesus. Thank you, but I’m cold. I’m going to leave my jacket on for a while.”
“Your jacket is cold and wet from being out in my world,” I told her with a smile. “Take it off. Leave it behind. Draw inside where it is warmer. I can warm you up.”
“All right.” She unzipped her coat, and I stepped forward to grab the back collar. She shook out of the sleeves. I pulled her hat off her head and received her gloves as she handed them to me.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It is my pleasure.” I draped her clothing over a drying rack and motioned down the hall. With hesitation, she followed me into my kitchen and climbed up on a stool beside my counter.
“I’m still cold,” she said.
“How would you like some hot chocolate?”
She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. “I guess, but it would need to be...”
“Dairy free. I know.” I poured some hot almond milk into a mug with a chocolate bomb inside. We watched as the sphere melted, turning the creamy liquid an enticing brown. Small marshmallows bobbed to the surface. I blew on the top to cool it down, and then added a mountain of whipped cream on top. The hiss of the can and the swirl of the foam caused her eyes to sparkle. I set the cup in front of her.
“This is a child’s dream hot chocolate,” she said laughing.
“Well, you are my child.”
Her smile broadened, and then she took a sip from the cup. Sighing, she closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders. “I needed this.”
We drank our cocoa in silence, swirling the milk to avoid leaving any chocolatey goodness in the bottom of the mug. When she finished, I slid a plate of her favorite no-bake chocolate cookies towards her.
“Tell me about your day.”
Taking a small one, she turned it over in her hands. “Not much to tell.”
“Did you see anything interesting?”
“The snow was beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said with a wink and then picked up a cookie. “Absolute perfection.”
“Are you talking about the snow or the cookie?”
“Both.”
“Which one do you like better?”
“I love them both the same,” I replied without hesitation.
“But, snow, although beautiful and peaceful, is far from perfect. It is cold and wet. It can be miserable, but cookies... Cookies are little bites of heaven. They are true perfection.”
I paused to consider my reply. “If perfection is defined as having no potential flaws, then cookies also fail. For cookies can have too many calories and make you fat.”
“True, so I guess nothing is perfect.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Her eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. “No, I just… it’s not… I mean…”
“Both are perfect because I made them, and I don’t make mistakes. Everything about them is just as it should be.”
“But they both have flaws.”
“And, to you, flaws are not allowed in perfection?”
She looked at me like I had two heads. “Of course not!”
“Hmmm,” I replied, taking another sip from my mug. “Now I understand why you are so hard on yourself.”
We sat in silence for a time. She fiddled with something in her pocket and sipped from her mug. I enjoyed her presence. I watched as her doubts overwhelmed her and chose to speak.
“Tell me about your day.”
She sniffed several times. “I lost my temper again with the kids. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know why. They just got on my nerves. They were not listening, and I was tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
I nodded and sat in silence.
Renee fidgeted. “Jesus? I’m sorry."
I placed my hand over hers on the counter. “I know. I forgive you.”
Pulling her hand away, she lay her forehead down on the counter, cradled in her arms. “I’m a mess.”
I placed my hand on her head. “No, you’re perfect.”
“Pfh,” she replied. “I told you I yelled at my kids for no reason.”
“And I already forgave you.”
“But they are your children, and I mistreated them.”
“You are my child too, and sometimes they mistreat you as well.”
She began to cry. “But I’m doing a horrible job.”
“You could do better.”
She pulled away. “You just said I’m perfect.”
“Yes, you are. You just don’t always make the best decisions.”
“I’m confused,” she whined, putting her head down on the table again.
“You don’t need to be flawless, Renee. You are perfect because I made you. If you walk with me, each day your decisions will get better. Stopping by for this visit was a good start.”
Walking around the counter, I pulled her head up and then embraced her. “I love you.”
She held on to me and fought back tears, but after a time her breathing got easier. I gave her a squeeze.
“Would you like another cookie?”
She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeves. “Yes, please.”
This time I set down a plate of chocolate chip cookies, warm from the oven. She picked one up and smiled. “Can I have two?”
1) In what ways are the service and comfort offered by the mother similar to the actions of Jesus?
2) In what ways are they different?
3) What solutions do the mother and Jesus offer to solve the problems their child faces?
4) How do you see Psalm 131 speaking into these stories?
5) Look at Hebrews 4:16. How does it help inform these stories?
Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace,
that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.