The power of baby therapy

Babies are not safe around me.

Well, actually, they couldn't be safer. Anyone who gets between me and a cuddling-sized baby is in imminent peril.

As faithful readers know, growing up, all I ever really wanted to be was a wife and a mother. I simply didn't realize the enormous responsibility nor the tremendous workload associated with such a calling.

With all of the tasks that come with motherhood -- making formula, sterilizing bottles, rinsing out and washing diapers, I barely had time to cuddle the little darlings before they were up on two legs and running hither, thither and yon. I liked nothing better than feeding time, for then I had the perfect excuse to sit quietly, gazing into the baby blues before me, watching their eyelids grow heavier, and heavier still, soon napping while they ate.

Father God, in his infinite wisdom, understands motherhood and offers ample opportunity for what I like to refer to as "baby therapy." The one that springs immediately to mind is grand-parenting. Indeed, even now he knits a grand-baby together in my daughter-in-law's womb and, come summertime, I will see again the wonder of his finest creation.

One of the more unusual examples of his ingenuity in meeting a mother's ongoing need took place at the job I had with the Brighton School District where our child nutrition program provided meals for the Teen Renaissance program.

The program provided a safe daycare, on school grounds, for those young mothers who were determined to complete their high school education despite their usually unplanned role as mothers. Our school nutrition program prepared the meals. It was part of the driver's regular route, but on the rare occasions when he was unavailable or his school-to-school duty was too heavy, our office would fill in the gap. Sometimes, it would be a contest to see who could offer to truck the meals in fastest, it depended on our individual need for baby therapy.

Upon arrival, one member of the staff would have to leave her regular duties to receive the food and begin the final meal preparations. Hopefully, this left one baby needing one set of arms. Mine were always willing.

I know it can sometimes be unsettling for parents, especially new parents, to see perfect strangers approach their shopping cart with goofy goo-goo eyes and a silly voice never heard in America's boardrooms, simply because they have a baby on board. It is important to understand when that happens, you are dealing with someone in desperate need of baby therapy. Try not to be too hard on them, nine times out of ten, they are harmless and satisfied with nothing more than looking and cooing.

Have you ever noticed how the clock slows down when you settle a little one into the crook of your arm? Your heart rate slows, your breathing comes easier, and the pressures of the universe, only moments before weighing heavy on your shoulders, are lifted, replaced by a soft, albeit often times, squirmy bundle of joy. Sure, sometimes, they may be screaming bloody murder, or the sweet scent of babyhood may have been momentarily replaced by a less desirable odor, but the odds are better than average you will receive at least a few moments of baby bliss.

The smallest things draw your attention. The seamless palms of their chubby little hands, the smoothness of their complexion, the contour of their head, the shape of their eyes, and that little bird mouth, pursed so sweetly one moment, the next, giving voice to what must be a monumental need.

Written in most of our hearts is the memory of when we were that little child, held close, looking up into eyes of tender compassion, welcoming love. This is where we first learned what love looks like. We cannot name the memory, it is hidden from our consciousness, but the imprint is there.

(For those who missed the glimpse then, for there are those for whom there was no welcoming, gentle gaze, I pray you've seen it in someone else's eyes and know it today.)

Because this is the first imprint made upon the heart of a baby King as well. Uncertainty surrounded him, his birthplace was less than ideal, his circumstances fraught with peril, yet with a mother's eyes upon him, he learned what love looked like.

Isaiah tells us that the prophesied Messiah would have no beauty or majesty, no physical characteristic that would attract us to him (Isaiah 53:2). I wonder then, was it something in his eyes? Did he so consume the look of love in those quiet days in the stable that he couldn't look at anyone without seeing them through the eyes of love? It was indeed those eyes of love that looked across Jerusalem and yearned to cover her as a hen covers her chickens. It was indeed those eyes of love that forgave the adulterous woman. There was love in those eyes for the lame, the leper and the widow whose only son had died.

He could still see through those eyes of love as they raised the cross against a bitter sky, and he prayed, "Forgive them."

"For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people: a light to lighten the Gentiles and the glory of thy people Israel." Luke 2:3-21 (KJV)