nursing license intact. Website: Sandra Heska King
She lies spread-eagled in the Pack-n-Play.
So vulnerable. So dependant.
I want to pick her up. Cradle her. Drink deep of baby. I want to savor the scent of formula
and lotion and sweat and damp diaper.
I want to stroke her hands and her feet. I want to smile and coo and sing.
My arms ache to hold her.
While her needs are simple and her wants are few.
Because I know how fast time passes.
When her little body will no longer fit neatly in one arm. When her legs will dangle off
my lap. When I won’t be able to even pick her up. When she’ll squirm away or avoid my
When little things won’t mesmerize her. When she’ll seek bigger thrills.
When she’ll smell of peanut butter and bubble gum and cotton candy and popcorn.
Of hair spray and perfume. (But please, dear God, not cigarettes or alcohol or blood.)
When she thinks she knows all, needs nobody.
But still so vulnerable.
My arms ache from holding her.
I gently trace her jaw line with my index finger, cup her face with my hand. It fits in my
palm. She stirs, and I pull back. She needs to rest. We’ve had a busy morning.
Walking, bouncing, rocking, rattling, bathing, talking.
Yes, she talks. Even at only seven weeks old. And she has a lot to say.
“Ooooooh! Ahhh-oooh. Goo-wah. Eeee-yah!”
And I know she said, “Gah-mah!” Yep. I heard it. She did.
For now I stand guard. Hover while she sleeps. Wait until she wakes.
I tuck this moment under my heart.
I wish I could tuck her under my wings. Hide her from any hurt or pain. But I know I
can’t. At least from everything. I couldn’t with her mom. I can’t with her sister. I know
she’ll pass through refining fires.
But I remember that I must let her go. To the One whose ways and timing are perfect.
And I can pray. That she won’t be burned. That she’ll make good choices. That life’s
punches will make her stronger. That she will know and cling to the One whose feathers
are broad. That she’ll rest in the shelter of His wings. Totally dependent on Him.
And that she’ll know that no matter how old she gets or how tall she grows, “Gah-mah’s”
arms ache to hold her.
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his feathers
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. Psalm 91:1-4 (NIV)
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King