A Routine Check-up

I’m not a mother.

I do not have children. (Though I’ve spent most of my life caring for others’, thus have some insight into the world of little ones.)
Yet allow me the creative license to use a comparison to make a point…

*This is based on an experience a friend very recently had, I’m borrowing her experience, in hopes she will not mind. She has a son, so I’ll use the male pronoun, yet “she” fits just as perfectly. Either gender shares this example’s scope.

You’re in your doctor’s office with your young child.
It’s immunization time. That means sharp objects, punctured body parts, an unsuspecting child, and tears….LOTS of tears. 
Your child is swinging his legs one minute, and screaming in octaves usually reserved for the worst occasions the next. 
There is so much pain he is experiencing, and he has NO IDEA why. 
You’re heart breaks at the sound of his cries.
Your tears cannot hold back any longer, for you know your child is afraid.
You can see, very clearly in front of your eyes, 
that your child is confused, in pain, in turmoil.
He is looking right at YOU. Maybe he glances at the doctor who’s still holding the needle and working. But he is mainly looking directly into your eyes. YOU are supposed to keep him from pain. ‘Why are you sitting there letting this happen?’, he may think. That’s what you feel he must be thinking. 
And so you cry too. Because your insides churn at seeing his shock, his hurt, his confusion as to what is happening to him. You want to make everything better…yet you know, this moment needed to happen. He needed to get the shots, for they would protect him from far more devastating pain down the road. If he didn’t go through this moment of discomfort, he could be opened and vulnerable to far worse danger, 
with effects much more crippling.
You love your child. You know and understand more than he does right now. 
Hearing his cries breaks your heart – you’re feeling the loss right along with him – yet you love him too much to have neglected this needed moment. 
And so you stay by his side.
You hold his hand.
You look right back into your child’s weary eyes. You say: “I’m sorry. I know how much this hurts. I love you. And I’m staying right here. I’m not going anywhere. And it will be over soon. This pain will not last. Just wait sweetheart. It’s almost over.”

It’s not hard to see my point, is it? 

I do not have a child. This was not my real-life experience in a doctor’s office. 

Yet, I am that child.

There is pain I didn’t expect. There is this moment in time I didn’t ask for and for which I cannot see the reason. I know the hands of my Parent are not the ones who stabbed me. He didn’t inflict or decide my hurt. Yet I still feel at the mercy of the needle. I still know what it feels like to be pricked and prodded. And I cry. I cry because I don’t understand why I have to be here. I cry because I can see my Father sitting there. And He didn’t prevent the hurt. “Why did you let me come here? Why am I feeling this searing torment? Can’t you make it stop?

My tears flow. 
         So do His.

I see He is staring right back into my eyes, with a gaze so steady and so overflowing with Love that cannot be contained. His eyes reflect my agony. He grabs my hand and lets me squeeze as hard as I want. As hard as I’m physically capable. And He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t flinch. He stays.
“I’m so sorry. I know this hurts. I love you….Just wait sweetheart. It’s almost over.”

His timing is not mine. So I don’t have a countdown to when it will end. I wish I did. But wishing I knew when it would end, does not change the TRUTH —
                     that I know it will. 
I am promised. By One who cannot, does not lie.

So my tears may flow while I still feel the substantial throbbing. But I know that what I feel now, what I’m fighting through, is not for nothing. Something beautiful will be able to exist, flourish, grow – because of this moment of discomfort. It is not for nothing. Beauty for ashes. My garment of praise is being woven. I will wear it soon. 
I believe it, because I believe Him. 

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