Holding my youngest

My youngest son came running to me for comfort today after he'd been hurt.

As I knelt on the floor beside him to give him a hug, it struck me:

It wasn't always this way.

When Isaias first came home to us from Guatemala, he was nine months old.

I would hold him in my arms, on my hip, and-- his response? He leaned away from me. He arched his back and turned away, wanting to be out of my arms. I wondered at the time if he responded this way because he wanted to get down and play, or if I could attribute this to a lack of bonding between us.

When he was sad, I drew him into my arms so that I could reassure him. He struggled to get free.

When he got hurt, I gathered him into my arms to comfort him. He fought it; he wanted down.

When I put him to bed at night, I followed the same routine I had with my other two. I held him, facing me, my hand behind his head, his head resting on my shoulder. And I rocked him. I sang to him or prayed for him. He screamed. And he fought me. He pulled his head back, flailed his arms, trying to turn away from me.

You can imagine how difficult this was. What should I do-- force him? Somehow that didn't seem right, but then, what was the alternative? Let him go without this affection from his mama? Or did I just need to give him time? Many weighed in on the "give him time" side. Mark and I agonized over this. And we prayed for wisdom. We finally decided that we had to train him to receive affection from us. We chose to gently but firmly persist.

From then on, when I held him in my arms and he wriggled to get free, I kept him there, holding him. It was at my will- not his- that he was able to get down. When he was hurt or sad, I held him for comfort. Oh, it wasn't comforting to him at first-- he wanted no part in it. But I persisted. And at bedtime-- oh, bedtime was the hardest-- I held him against me and he screamed as I sang softly, crying as I sang. And I prayed earnestly that God would soften his heart towards me; that he would be able to rest in my arms, not struggle against them.

There were a few evenings, in frustration and tears, that I did not persist. I felt weary of trying. There were times I let him have his way. I began our bedtime routine, he began screaming, and I gave in. I laid him down and promptly walked out of the room, feeling rejected, hurt or angry. There were times I told Mark, "I can't do this." And I would pass him off to Mark to put down for the night. And then Mark would come to me, hold me in my hurt, and remind me: He just doesn't know, Stacy. He's learning. Be patient with him.

I honestly forget how long it took. But I do remember the first time I rocked him before bedtime and he didn't scream as I sang to him. He still pulled away, but he didn't scream. I came out of his room, jublilant, and told Mark all about it.

And then another night, not long after that one, I held his head against my shoulder as I rocked him. But I carefully removed my hand from the back of his head and he kept his head there on my shoulder. He picked his head up after a moment and I waited, frozen, to see what he would do. And then he laid it back upon my shoulder, content to rest there without my hand directing him.

Today when he came running in to be comforted by his mama, I remembered all that ache in my heart so many months ago as I tried to hold him and he did not want me to. And I realized that God answered those earnest prayers of ours-- for wisdom and for bonding.

Now Isaias reaches for me, constantly. When he is hurt, he turns to either Mark or myself, whoever is nearest. When he is sad, he wants to be held. When I am cooking dinner, he is standing nofurther than two feet away from me, watching intently, periodically reaching up to be held. When I leave the room, he follows me. When I mention bedtime, he comes to me. He lays his head on my shoulder many, many times a day. When I hold him, he snuggles with me. Oh, just for a minute. Then he really does want to go play. He wraps his little brown arms around my neck tightly and he kisses me, hard, on the mouth. Each time I sit cross-legged on the floor, he comes and turns around to sit in my lap. When I read books, he climbs up onto my lap.

God is *so* good. I am thankful today, for this.

One more thing I thought of today: I think we do this with our Father sometimes, too. He wants to teach us something. He is loving and gentle but firm. And don't we resist sometimes? We pull away, not wanting to learn that particular lesson. We fight Him, thinking that we know best. We complain and grumble about our circumstances. We want to retain control. But He lovingly persists. He does not walk away from our stubborness. He does not grow weary with us, and He is slow to anger. And He knows what we do not know as we fight Him: that we need it; this lesson. Just like little Isaias needed that loving affection from me.