In the past two weeks, my house has seen the stomach flu, croup, an ear infection, and, as of yesterday, pneumonia. Have you ever read the number 104 on your child’s thermometer? Not fun. After three hours, three blood draws and two antibiotic shots in urgent care over the weekend, my six-year-old is home recovering with a posse of stuffed animals and the PBS Kids app on my iPad.
Sure, I had other stuff on my agenda. But today I’m propped on pillows sitting right here beside my daughter, grateful that she wants me—to place a cool washcloth on her forehead and count her paling freckles. . . to refill her pink water cup and sing praise songs in her ear. . . to reassure with gentle smiles and strokes and a reading from Little Women. Chapter two tomorrow, my love, but now it’s time for rest.
I hate seeing my kids suffer. But it helps to know they suffer a little less when I’m in the room. Crazy, isn’t it? Somehow I’m the antidote, the lady who can make it all tolerable—even when the nurses poke and the ache won’t go away. I can comfort them like no one else, simply because they call me Mom.
Sometimes I wish I could be six years old again, to have someone watching over me with loving hands and answers to all my cries. Someone I could depend on, with child-like trust, to make it all okay simply by being there.
Oh. That’s right. I do.
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God,” (2 Corinthians 1:3–4).
What kids don’t know is that their utter confidence in Mom is misplaced. On her own, Mom is faulty and scared. She knows a thing or two about coughs and ibuprofen, sure, but bacterial infections freak her out, too. She loves her kids so much, her own chest hurts. So she seeks the One who loves them more. And he is the source of all comfort that trickles down from Mom to child until the germs are gone and the glory is His.
So when you’re worried, pray. When you’re tired, pray. When temps shoot up and tension clamps down and wisdom seems far, far away—pray. God takes a seat on the pillows beside you. He smiles and reassures and says:
You’re a good mom. Leave the rest to me.
Have a blessed week, friends. Keep leaning on God—and say a little prayer for us? The Kopitzkes are tired of Tylenol and hope to recover soon.
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