Last night, my little one cried for two hours before falling to sleep. A combination of stuffy nose and teething probably had something to do with it, but no combination of singing, rocking, teething gel, patting, soothing words, prayers, etc. seemed to help him. On nights like that, I have to remind myself that patience is a choice. There is a concrete moment (or several points) at which one must step back, consciously relax every wound up muscle in my body, entrust him to God's care and the comfort of his angel, and wait. . . . I'm not very good at waiting.
God can give me that peace in the midst of life daily frustrations. I know that inside. But sometimes I think His form of help is to wait with me, rather than to fix the situation, which is often what I would rather him to do.
Last night, I was reminded how beautifully my husband reflects that compassion (etymologically, that "suffering with or alongside") that Christ offers us. As we lay in bed between visits to Rip van Winkle's antipode, my husband reached over and held my hand for a while. I know he wasn't feeling very peaceful himself, but that one little gesture of affection and solidarity made the whole situation bearable. Men, it really is the little things that count, the little things that help get your wives one step closer toward sainthood.
Perhaps in the areas of housework and homework, those were a wasted two hours. But in the school of love, moments like that can be the most valuable hours of all . . . if used well. God help me.
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