The Heartbeat of God Echoes Through Motherhood

A friend told me while I was pregnant that having a child was like living with your heart outside of your body.  I wasn’t sure what she meant, to be honest. I mistook stoicism for godliness for most of my life, so understanding the depth of those emotions was a bit beyond me. 

A few months later, I see my little girl’s face for the first time scrunched up into a full-bodied wail in the hospital room.  During the next few days in the hospital, I felt emotions that were so strong my stoic walls could not keep them out. 

One of the first times we bathed her at home, she sobbed so hard her little body shook.  Her jaw quivered. That tiny tongue flattening and stretching in her wide, open mouth and screaming as much as her little lungs could muster. She was slippery with soap already, and wet, but my heart couldn’t take it.  I cuddled her to my chest and cried with her until her hiccuping cries turned into whimpers. 

On the way back from an appointment, strapped into her carseat, she was hungry and let us know with perfect, unrelenting wahs.  Home was fifteen minutes down the road, but she was in the moment and her tummy was screaming its emptiness.  Her need and my inability to meet it right then shredded my heart.  I cried all the way home with her. 

I had no idea I could feel such deep connection. 

In reflecting on these things, a truth came to mind: God made women in his image (Genesis 1:27).  I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about how a mother’s connection to her child, or the way she nurtures that child reflects the character of God.  

I’ve always visualized God as a diplomatic, imperturbable father figure.  Even his sympathy is cooled because he knows how every moment ends and he knows the true threat of every situation.  It’s never as big of a deal as I make it seem, so his sympathy is cool and the comfort is a mental exercise.  He simply persuades me that I’m overreacting and I tell my emotions to chill out.

Even knowing the threat level and how both the bath and the car trip would end, I couldn’t help but feel the pain along with my little girl.  I slowly began to realize the depth of love God has for me.   God sees my fear regardless of the actual danger level and still wraps his arms around me and cries with me (Psalm 34:18; 147:3).  God sees my need and knows fulfillment is coming, but still feels the emptiness with me and comes to comfort (John 11:35).  

I can’t persuade my daughter that she is truly safe with words and sometimes, I also can’t be persuaded that I am safe either.  No matter what words I hear or what truths I chant to myself, my emotions and my situation overwhelm them.  I’ll feel the panic intensify without a defense and no words can pacify it regardless of the power of their truth.  I often feel very alone in that moment.  In my very adult and mature way, I am screaming like my little newborn. 

As soon as I hear that precious sob, I put down whatever I’m doing and hurry to comfort.  It’s my presence and not the truth of my words that bring peace.   Of course I speak soothing words, but it’s the cuddles that often quiet her to the point that she falls into complete relaxed sleep.  God does that with me.  He runs to me and soothes the pain with presence and yes, truth too (Isaiah 66:13; 49:14-15; Matthew 23:37). 

I can freely weep from the pain knowing that God is with me in those tears.

The next time I feel overwhelmed, terrified, abandoned or needy, I can freely weep from the pain knowing that God is with me in those tears.  He’s not leaning back in his desk chair with arms folded, arguing all the reasons I shouldn’t be feeling those or giving me a lecture as to why I am in the position I’m in.  No, he’s just like me holding my wet, soapy daughter to comfort her fears and sobs. And he does that for all of his children.