Why do my kids ask me “who’s coming over?” when I start cleaning up the house?
That is totally unrelated to anything else I’m about to say, but it’s been on my mind since my three year sprung it on me for not the first time this morning.
Actually, the other day I got another lesson from a small boy. Max tagged along when I took Soren to the doctor for a 36 month check up. Soren was due for three immunizations. I had to hold his head and hands while the nurse poked the fiery needles into his chubby, little thighs. Every mother out there knows what a glorious moment that is. He tolerated the first one OK, but developed an angry and growing wail with the subsequent two.
When it was done, I was completley focused on comforting the poor kid. He was very put out, so hugs and head strokes and comforting words weren’t sufficient. I think he wanted revenge…until I offered him a drink of my mocha. He calmed down instantly at the thought of the warm, chocolaty espresso goodness. That’s when I turned to look at Max.
The nurse had gone. My son was standing alone, stoop shouldered in the middle of the exam room. He was weeping. His brother’s pain so horrified him that he couldn’t hold it together. When I noticed him, he immediately stumbled over and hung onto me and his little brother in a tight, circle hug.
I stood there with my small huddle of sniffling boys and espresso and thought, “that’s compassion—teach me that, God.”