The Best of WTOnline

Reader Poll

What part of your life is most difficult to surrender to God? My finances My future My past My family My physical body My feeling of control View Results

 

Feature

The Nurturing Heart of God

By Sara Matson

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you” (Isaiah 66:13).

“Mommy!”

My daughter’s middle-of-the-night whimper drags me from my cocoon. She is up yet again for a diaper change, thanks to a flu bug that won’t leave her alone—even at 2 a.m.

Half asleep, my normally active 3-year-old is weak as a baby bird. Her cries awaken compassion in my sleepy heart; I use my gentlest touch and my softest voice to make her comfortable again. Then I help her back to bed and pull the comforter up, smoothing her hair with my hand.

“Go to sleep now,” I soothe. “Everything’s all right.”

She sighs contentedly and closes her eyes.

As I stumble back to my own bed, I suddenly realize my special role as a mother. I am there in the dark. I bring solace and ease pain. I croon fears away. I am nurse, night watchman and guardian angel rolled into one. It’s a holy role we mothers share—a sacred role. Though I have been a mother for several years now, I don’t always feel like one. Tonight I do.

My head touches the pillow and a picture flashes through my mind. Three years ago, I was the one in bed calling for my mother. Knowing my husband’s need for sleep, I had sent him home after the surgical birth of our twins. My mother stayed in his place, bringing me water, holding my hand and buzzing the nurse when my pain got too bad. There was a fold-out couch in the room for her to rest on, but I don’t think she slept much. At one point in the middle of my post-operative fog, I opened my eyes to see her at my side, looking at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Just watching,” she said.

Now that I have daughters of my own, I understand. Sometimes at night, when my babies are sleeping, I study them. I marvel at the fringe of dark eyelashes against pale cheeks. The whisper of breath coming regularly from open lips. The sweet, plump curves of small fingers. Other times, I get up just to reassure myself they are safe and comfortable. I adjust their blankets. I check the temperature of their foreheads. I tuck a stray hand or foot back under the covers.

Closing my eyes, I pull my own covers up to my chin. A phrase pops into my head: “the nurturing heart of God.” I have heard the phrase before, but tonight I think I understand it in a new way. It means I am not alone.

I feel alone sometimes. When I am the one with the flu, or when I wake up in the dark after a bad dream, or when I feel as weak as a baby bird, I long for my mom’s presence and help. I still need her, even though I am 35 and years gone from her house. I think I will always need the love and protection that only a mother can offer.

It comforts me to think that, although my earthly mother is not at my bedside tonight, I have a God with the heart of a mother watching me sleep.

“Everything’s all right,” He whispers in my ear. “Go back to sleep now. I’m here.”

As mom to now 5-year-old twin girls, SARA MATSON grabs any personal time she can get—except in the middle of the night—to read, exercise or write children's fiction. She lives in Minnesota with her husband Jory and daughters Leah and Chloe.