Vulnerability
"Daaaadddy!" My toddler's wails break the deep quiet of night. I hear my husband stir, and he leaves the warmth of our bed to crouch in the cold hallway by her door.
She cries again. He steps into her room, and his shadow disappears. I hear the rustle of bedclothes, a brief pause, and then her quivering voice grows still. She has been rescued.
Can you remember when you could be rescued with a simple gesture? The simple glow of a nightlight or a brief snuggle with Dad can scatter our most persistent fears. It's an extraordinarily comforting part of childhood.
Now that I am a mother, I feel strangely vulnerable. Oh, it's not because I suddenly feel like an adult. I was one of those long before my daughter was born. It's not even because I have the responsibility of caring for three young children. I can handle the job on most days. It's because being someone's mother brings more emotional risk than I've ever known. The more I love, the greater my vulnerability and capacity for loss.
This delicate dance between love and fear certainly has its roots in childhood. When I watch my toddler drag along his favorite toy of the day, I realize that it may disappear tomorrow without his notice. The next toy that takes its place will also be cherished at least for 20 minutes. I am sure my childish attachments were no different.
But as I grew older, I realized that to love something deeply was a risky enterprise. When I married, I began weaning myself of the self-centered attitudes that marked my youth. I had never feared for anyone's safety before, not even my own. But my husband was so valuable to me that his presence defined my concerns. (And worries?)
And then a more amazing thing happened. A bald-headed baby with pale eyes and a dozen funny creases came to live at my house. She was my very own child, a miracle of God's hand. My love for her took me by surprise. It caught my breath and made me give up things I once thought dear.
I loved my husband, yes. But the emotional vulnerability that accompanied motherhood seemed to grow out of an even more mature, multidimensional and protective love than the kind that joined me in marriage to my husband. But mother-love was and is an astonishing love, the kind that must have its roots in heaven.
Of course, such love has its rewards. I pray I will not forget the gentle breathing of my newborn as she slept draped over my stomach in complete satisfaction. The precious coos or the unmistakable, sweetish smell of a nearly bald head damp with sweat from lying on my shoulder are things I cannot forget. Whenever I hear the voice of my fears, which is more often than I hoped, I turn my attention to simple days of grace, brown curls in the sun, fingers pointing at the marvels of creation and infant miracles. The joys are too sweet, and on most days they eclipse fear.
However, while my joy has increased with each plateau, so have the risks. There have been costs of motherhood that no one ever mentioned at my baby showers or in the congratulatory cards sent to the maternity ward. My protective instincts are natural, but sometimes painful. I grow tired of my rapid pulse as my children cross the street. I wish I could suppress the urge to call the baby-sitter every time I am on a date with my husband. I wish I didn't feel that leaden weight when I read in my local paper a story about child abuse or abduction. But it is part of love. It makes me vulnerable.
I have been a mother now for only six years, and I would be wise to ask mothers who have been in this business for decades for advice. And it seems that the spiritual investment in my children far outweighs any earthly one, and it has perhaps the highest personal risk. Will my daughter at some point reject our training and choose a different path? Will my son grow to be a man of God, or will he seek his own answers?
Certainly, risks remind me of the realities of living in a fallen world, one that cannot insulate my family from sin or terror, selfishness or corruption. The world is dangerous. The best theological minds have written on suffering and God's reasons for allowing it. But if one day I am grieving over a prodigal son or a chronically ill child, those reasons may sound hollow. God's hope guarantees freedom from eternal sorrows, not all earthly ones.
On some days, it seems these darker thoughts overpower the pleasures of being a mother. But what is the crux of the paradox? I must embrace the risks, for without them, I have not known love. Without vulnerability, I live without all the pleasures and do not always find my dependence on God.
Perhaps I can understand motherly love best as a shadow of God's larger plan. The love I have for my children is patterned after God's love for me. Jesus Christ, too, has risked His grace in exchange for a personal relationship with me. And nowhere is love and pain more beautifully aligned than on the cross.
When I remember my childhood days, days when my fears were small in comparison to my father's strength, I am reminded that not too much has changed. When I'm in the dark, looking for answers, I will still cry out. And God, who hears my pleading just as I hear my daughter's wails will slip into my room and quiet the desperation.
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