Storms

Speckled and freckled beneath the waves of his sun bleached hair, is a five-year-old boy who's "all growd up." The sun has stained his cheeks to a rosy shade of pink, but he takes little notice of this, as he's only particular about his adorable wavy blond hair. This new obsession of his has led to the fact that Mommy's brush is MIA most everyday.

I can't bring myself to cut it, nor can I stop myself from brushing my lips against the softness every chance I can get. So I do--unless he runs. Last night he ran.

I chased the giggling boy around the coffee table, through the diningroom, out of the kitchen, and into his bedroom, until he was cornered. Smothering him with hugs and kisses, I savoured the scent of his freshly washed hair, while feeling the soft wave of feathers against my nose and my cheek.

After crossing his arms, his bottom lip slipped forward in defiance. "What's your problem?" asked his sister, who was standing in the hallway.

"I wanted to try going to sleep without hugs and kisses tonight!" he huffed, once again releasing the lip that marked his desire for independance.

With little assistance, he tucked himself in, and waved me off into the night--his crown of curls encircling his rosy red cheeks on the pillow. I let out a yawn, and slipped off to bed myself.

About four hours later, we awoke to the clap of thunder, a flash of lightening, and the little man standing at the foot of our bed, hoping to crawl in beside me.

"I'm scared," he announced, then he slipped in beside me and pulled the covers up to his neck. For a while, I watched his young silhouette rise and fall with each breath he took. I smiled knowing that this little man was not "growed up" at all. He still needed his momma, and together we needed the storm.

I got to thinking about the storms of life that shake us, bringing us down to our knees. Perhaps it's financial, or a matter of health, or perhaps it's losing the trust of someone you've grown accustomed to leaning on. Maybe it's shaking your faith, but hopefully it's doing the opposite--drawing you closer to the arms of the one who protects.

We need the storms. For without them we wouldn't see that we have need for Christ. We are all sinners, and we all walk the same soil that trips us up from time to time leaving us feeling alone in the storm. But like my son who wants so desperately to stand on his own, we aren't alone and shouldn't be. I praise God that He is there to comfort me, to cleanse me, and to shelter me under His wing. I need my Father, and because of Him, I can weather the storm.



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