“Watch me, Mommy!”
This is the single line of the chorus I hear all day long. Whatever task I am occupied by matters little to my daughter who burns to show me her latest accomplishment. From basketfuls of laundry and sinks full of dishes, I avert my gaze to behold new dances, record-breaking leaps, watercolor masterpieces, and puzzles completed. I wrestle with the need to finish what I’m doing and the desire to be present to her. And yet -
Every newborn yawn and scrunchy face was cause for awe. In the beginning, I didn’t have to be reminded to watch; I could stare at her for hours. Every babble was precious. Where along the way did her existence become commonplace? How often do I miss what she is saying because her words are less important than whatever I am concentrating on?
“Watch me, Mommy!” This chorus is a grace. It is a reminder to give what I used to offer unbidden: my whole being attuned to this little, precious life. God has descended, etched his image on her soul, and asked me to care for her. Me. Does God issue a clearer call to love than the high-pitched wails of a newborn hungry for her mother’s arms?
Of course I am not called to keep my eyes on her unwaveringly. At the same time, I don’t need a reminder to make dinner (just one to switch the laundry over!). This task to listen to little whispers and behold the unfolding of God’s handwork in my children - this is the center of life and love. And still so often it seems that I relegate it to the whispering wind, God’s voice so tiny that it doesn’t resonate over the howling winds and raging fires of my life.
Thankfully, God in his wisdom has made children forgiving creatures. “Show me again,” I say, and she is happy to comply.