Sometimes we find ourselves repenting from our foolish ways as new parents. Our little man has had lots of ups and downs with this going to sleep thing.Yes, I rocked him to sleep for forever. And we are working (have been working) on him putting himself to sleep.
The past few months have been pretty great. Then we had the season of travel and grandparents and we just lost our good habits. Which led to last night – the apocolyptic cries. It took Jake 2 hours to get him to sleep last night, while I was out at a women’s group. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Then today.
On fabulous days like Tuesdays, the boy goes to MMO in the mornings, comes home exhausted and sacks out pretty easily. Today, I was greeted by his teacher with what I can only understand now as a warning: “He had a great day. And he ate a cupcake; it’s Oliver’s birthday!” All righty. “He ate a whole cupcake?” I asked, confused. My little Ghandhi has been super committed to his very own hunger strikes for various injustices, like when I dare to present him with a vegetable or other insults such as a vanilla wafer. He has a point to prove, after all.
Yes, he ate the whole cupcake.
Hmm. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but as we came home and I realized it was not exhaustion I was seeing but a wild-eyed, sugar-induced frenzy. He’s had sugar before. We love a whole grain around here, but we’re not that granola. We just don’t do a lot of sugar, and Logan doesn’t really have a sweet tooth (a kink in the gene pool, if you ask me) The crazy-eyed toddler I tried to get to nap let me in on a little secret: they are RIGHT about the sugar. It is a drug. Happy birthday, dear Oliver. You’re a lovely little chap, but your EVIL cupcake-sharing ways make me crazy.
We settled. We snuggled. We read a quiet book, hummed a sweet tune, rocked, let the stillness of the sound machine lull us into quiet rest. But rest did not come. My sweet child began jumping in his crib. He refused to lay down, and began laughing at me, at his quilt, at anything in the room. The laughs turned to cries. He was about to hurt himself. It was ugly. Knowing he needed rest – BAD – I scooped him up and started our process over again. He wailed. We’re talking rage agaist the machine wailing of “NO, MAMA!!” It was a ramped up version of his worst cries. A million things ran through my head – is he sick, does his tummy ache? Did he actually hurt his head, could he have been allergic to those blasted cupcakes? Really, though, I knew my child. I knew he had decided he wanted anything but rest, and I knew that was what he needed most.
I put him in the “hold.” I rocked him, ignored his tantrum, and hummed my song over his cries. I began to repeat over and over what was happening: “It’s sleep time. Time to rest. It’s sleep time. Time to rest.”
I began to notice something about my voice. My voice began to have the exact same tone and rhythm I used to use when serving communion.
The moments of communion that mean the most to me are when the people come forward and take from the common cup and the common plate. Intinction. I’ve heard the words said a thousand different ways. I’ve seen this holy meal shared in probably a thousand different ways, with great pagentry to simple moments in a basement. There’s something nice about the passing of the plate way of doing things.
But for me, walking forward with the whole gathered community to one common gift of the cup just beats all. The times I have been privileged to stand and receieve the people, offering the bread or the cup have stirred my spirit deeply. And about halfway through that sacrament, I notice my voice. In those moments, my words start out as simple statements of remembrance:
The body of Christ is broken for you;
The blood of Christ, poured out for you.
After saying this to each person in a long line of believers, the words begin to have a rhythm. I’ve noticed that my voice changes. I feel almost separate from my words, and I listen to the words reach each person as I look them in the eye and offer the gift.
For you.
For you.
As I speak the words and offer the bread and cup, I am awestruck at the collection of people coming forward to this common gift. I have often known the people and remembered their stories as we meet at the altar. The tears they cry. The regrets they hold. The joy they feel. When I don’t know them, I wonder. What do they bring to this moment? Are they raging inside? What do they cry out? Do my words interrupt their inner monologue, breaking into that rhythm? Do they hear the words that I have just said a hundred time before them, and will continue to say when they step away? What do they hear? But my voice is steady.
I repeat the tiny affirmation over and over: broken for you. As I rocked my child into rest, and spoke over his cries, I heard the same tones that I have offered before. I heard my voice reassuring that this moment was not what he wanted it to be but was just exactly what he needed. Rest. Care. Love. My sweet boy began to close his eyes, and my words continued all the way into his peaceful sleep.
Time to rest.
