come

Today was frustrating. I hate not being able to fix things. When it's babies that are broken, it just hurts my heart that much more.

Abel is one of the roundest-faced two-year olds I have ever met, complete with a bottom lip jutting so permanently out that I briefly considered hanging my stethoscope on it. He is also one of the most stubborn. Getting Abel to drink a nutritious, delicious can of Pediasure is nearly impossible. Getting him to swallow medicine is a kamikaze mission. I attempted both today; I also showered directly after work, and I might actually have run the water for my full two minutes. My hair still smells faintly of augmentin syrup, but I think I got the worst of it out.

Abel was born with a condition in which the skin never closed over his bladder, and his plumbing, as a result, is not terribly functional. Four days ago, he underwent a very painful surgery to jury-rig a solution to the problem, and he's been angry with us ever since.

It's the rare child I'm unable to connect with, but Abel had me totally stumped. The Lion King wasn't interesting. Stuffed animals were scary. And even my failsafe standby, a huge book of stickers, was an object of utter disdain to my pouting little friend. It was at this critical moment, when all my tricks were exhausted, that Abel's mother left his bedside to go bathe in the tiny, shared bathroom. And the lip that I had thought was at maximum levels of jutting not only stuck further out, but also started to quiver as his eyes filled up with tears.

Come, I said, and held out my arms.

He was surprised, I think. I hadn't tried it before, mostly because I was sure that the result would be kicking and screaming. But I had caught him off guard, and before he realized what he was doing, he had lifted his pudgy little hands up to me. I scooped him up and held him close to my chest, his body stiff in my arms. I rubbed his back in small circles, crooning soft words in Liberian English as he relaxed into me and his head found the corner in my neck reserved especially for small, brown boys.

When his mama returned, I placed him gently back in his bed and his dark eyes followed me until I had disappeared around the corner.


I just can't help thinking that it's exactly what God did with me.

For so long, I resisted all His advances. He tempted me with unfettered love and sure promises, and I rejected Him at every turn. Nothing He offered was good enough for me; I was the kid who didn't even want stickers.

And then, when I wasn't expecting it, He just held out His arms. Come.

And I did. And I relaxed into that corner that He had reserved especially for me, and now I can't figure out why on earth I didn't want to be here all along.