I’m not doing the dishes right now or wiping down the table. I’m not going to start the second load of kid laundry. I’m going to sit down amidst all this chaos and try to pull straight this tangled image that’s been amassing in my tired brain.
When Baby wakes up he screams for me. He doesn’t stop until we’re back in my bed, very close and very still. Maybe I fall back asleep, but at some point the milk runs out.
When Baby is satisfied he maneuvers however he must so that his head is on my head, his breath is in my breath. And he takes my wrist in the firm grip of both his hands and lays my palm over his face. He leans into it, from where the hollow under his bottom lip touches the heel of my hand to the tips of my fingers spread along his soft hairline. I can feel his breath on my palm, the wetness of his lips. He does this every day.
And I am reminded of a young boy in church growing up that was developmentally delayed, handicapped in many things except a jolly spirit. At the end of service every Sunday the pastor would step aside the pulpit and raise his hand in benediction. And this boy would raise his hand, too, hovering inches above his forehead, his open palm doubling his blessing.
And then, there’s Jacob who deceived for the blessing, who wrestled all night to earn that blessing.
Why does tangibly wrestling an angel seem simpler than … what, God? What does my wrestling look like? How do I fight for your face in mine, your breath in mine? What does it look like if the first thing I do every morning is pull your heavy hand with both fists to lay it across my face?
You blessed Jacob, the one who went to such great lengths. Let me go to such lengths. Bless me.