What Child Is This?
After an endless day of relentless emotional pecking I raise my very occasional white flag of silence and retreat alone to my bedroom abnormally early. I tune the radio in search of hope and wait. ?What child is this
who laid to rest
on Mary?s lap
is sleeping??
Jesus. Are you sleeping? Sometimes I just feel like one of those disciples in the boat when the storm comes. I pray. I plead. I seek. I try. I ask you to produce the fruits I lack day after day as this wretched disease wreaks havoc on Mom?s mind, and, in turn, mine. What child is this you?ve put here with me? She is your child, Lord. But I still fail. It?s no sooner I pray that I fail again. I am no match for this monster that has taken up residence in my daily life for as long as I can remember. It?s just too big. It brings out every uglypart of my being and I lose. I stop talking. I lay down. I wonder where on earth you could be.
Addie proudly walks in. With wide eyes she looks at me and then at the radio. She points at the radio and, though I?m all alone in the room she confidently exlaims, ?Daddy turned that on.? A familiar chorus streams as naturally as my tears.
?This, this is Christ the King
Whom shepards guard
And angels sing??
She jumps into bed with me and places a miniature princess doll on my forehead. How much I love my child! How much more my Father must love His. He is the King. He isn?t even capable of sleeping. Though it seems to me I am alone, I, like Addie, must confidently conclude that it is indeed with Daddy that all things originate and play out. He not only sees them- He prepares, plans and finishes them. Life is ordered whether I see its order or not. Though I don?t see Him anywhere in this room of life some days, I am certain He is here and that the music that is playing is a result of His hand and not random chance.
?Haste, haste
to bring Him laud
the babe, the Son of Mary??
Mia enters with the origami paper I could not fold correctly in perfect butterfly form and a proud smile. ?I told you Daddy could do it better than me? I say. Haste! Haste! Lori! Bring your failure to the Son of Mary! Don?t you know Daddys are better at morphing ugly caterpillars into beautiful butterflies than silly old frustrated and helpless Mommys?!
?What child is this??
I think back to my attempt to fold the butterfly earlier today. Already frazzled from the constant pecking, when I failed, I threw the paper down in frustration saying, ?Mia! I just can?t do it. I?m sorry. You?ll just have to wait and give it to Daddy.? I?ll rest in peace tonight doing the same because my merciful Lord said this when I came to the end of myself, ?Lori. You just can?t do it. Wait for me. Give it to Daddy and I will do it perfectly.? This is the child that came so I might not have to face the devil alone. Bring Him laud.