A Parable: When Things Are Awful

And now, an eye-rolling statement: Taking care of babies requires a lot of work.

 

(You're either rolling your eyes because you've been there and know it's the understatement of the year, or perhaps you're rolling your eyes because if you have to hear one more time from your pugnacious parenting friends that "wah wah, having babies is hard," you're going to hurl your tablet/laptop/phone into oncoming traffic. But I digress.)

 

Taking care of my almost-three-month-old requires the usual sundry tasks:

• Changing wet diapers
• Changing diapers that are not only wet, but filled with unholy amounts of gastro-pyrotechnics
• Letting him sit in a shallow, somewhat soapy tub while he playfully flings water everywhere (known as "bathing" to those who are slow on the uptake)
• Sneakily squeezing in a nap for myself under the guise that he needs a nap, too, so why not knock the two out at the same time
• Feeding him an ever-increasing amount of milk/formula while chanting "Chug! Chug! Chug!"
• Giving him baby-approved things to play with, switching it up often so he doesn't holler at me for being bored
• Getting him to go to, and simultaneously remain in the state of, sleep
• More typical day-in-the-life things that presently escape my sleep-lacking memory

 

Since Lawson was born with a bilateral cleft lip and palate, I can add another daily task to the docket: Taking out, cleaning, and re-placing his NAM device. His NAM (nasal alveolar molding) device is a retainer-type appliance that is held in place with medical tape and orthodontic elastic bands, and it helps coax the pieces of his lip together so the surgery (which is scheduled in early August) goes more smoothly. He's also now got what David and I affectionately refer to as "tent poles" attached to the NAM that will help to shape his nostrils pre-surgery.

 

The NAM device: a must-have for this season's fashion.

 

And since the NAM is just like that awful retainer you had when you were in middle school, it has to be cleaned regularly. At least twice a day (sometimes more if we're dealing with spit-ups of biblical proportions), I have to:

• Remove the existing tape (as needed; sometimes I avoid this until it's bathtime)
• Take the NAM out of Lawson's mouth
• Rinse the NAM with some cold water, ensuring it's clean
• Use a damp washcloth to clean the inside of Lawson's mouth (mucus, milk build-up, etc.)
• Place new tape on Lawson's cheeks, if needed
• Put ointment on the nasal pieces so they don't irritate when they're in his nose
• Hold the little fella down and put the NAM back in, securing with the elastic bands and ensuring it's in place
• Console the little dude, who at this point is pretty upset at the whole ordeal

 

As you can imagine, it really, really sucks to do this. It just sucks all around. It sucks for me to hold my son down and pull an orthodontic device out of his mouth, only for him to get it crammed right back in. Most folks who come by and watch us do it have a hard time doing so. Rightfully so; it's no picnic watching a baby act like he's getting his toenails ripped out.

 

Oh, I said I had a parable in all this mess, didn't I? Well, then...

 

I happened to have a revelation about this a while back, just after I'd temporarily tortured Lawson with yet another NAM cleaning. He'd been crying, as he usually does, going all red-faced, vein-bulgy, and communicating to me in no uncertain terms, "Mom, this is really the worst. I hate this. Why are you doing this to me? I trust you, and you do this? You hurt me. I hope you're ready for the therapy bill you're getting in about ten years. Have I mentioned that I hate this? And that I probably hate you a little bit for doing it to me (at least until my next feeding)?"

 

So, as one does, I communicated right back. "It sucks. I know you hate it. Mommy loves you, even if you can't see it right now. I know you're mad. It makes total sense to be mad. I'd be mad if that were in my mouth. But you know what? In a few months, you'll have an operation to fix it, and then you won't have to wear that awful thing anymore." Did he even know that I was crying just as much as he was? That it killed me to put him through this? He couldn't understand that a time was coming where he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.

 

And I realized, in that moment, I was experiencing a microcosm of what God must go through when He gives us awful stuff. He's holding us down, taking out things (and/or forcing them right back in again) that are painful: Failed relationships. Financial woes. Debilitating depression. Losing someone you love. Not getting that job you dreamt of, or getting rejected from the grad school that you worked so freaking hard to get into. Battling a disease you did nothing to deserve. Watching someone else battle it. The list goes on.

 

God pushes us to our breaking point, watching us thrash about, screaming, kicking, and hating everything. We sob, we wail, we cry out in anger (and probably hurl a few choice four-letter words) at the One who did all this. He pushed all this on me. He took that away. He forced this on me. He hates me. He must love watching me suffer. This is probably what He does for fun.

 

What if He doesn't love watching you suffer? What if He watches us cry as we're broken, and He cries? What if He just wants to tell us what He already knows - that this isn't the end, that there will be better things soon, that there is a reason for all this terrible stuff, that His heart is breaking to watch us in misery - but you, in your limited ability, won't be able to understand it?

 

Lawson can't understand that he has an operation coming up. He doesn't know what I'm saying when I assure him that there's a reason he's put through this pain and discomfort. But I can hold him, soothe him, and he can understand that, but only after he pauses from his crying jag and takes in the fact that he's in my arms, he's safe, and he can relax. I can give him a bottle to calm him down, or a rattle to play with. Could he try to soothe himself by sitting on the changing table and crying it out? Probably, but it won't be as effective as it would be if I comforted him.

 

Perhaps, then, when we're put through things that are really the worst, we can surrender ourselves to God's arms, too. We can let Him hold us, comfort us, bless us through the encouraging words and actions of those close to us.

 

Then, just maybe, we'll catch a glimpse of that hope that's just around the corner from all this pain.

 

Pictured: Hope that's just around the corner.