Babies Cry?

Growing up I was/am the youngest in my family. And by “family” I mean extended. With the exception of one cousin that lived in another state, on both my mom and dad’s respective sides I was the youngest of the children and grandchildren. This means a few things. I have a permanent seat at the proverbial “kids’ table” for family holidays. Looking at family photo albums is an event full of reminiscing on how cute the babies were, soon followed by the comment, “What happened?” But most of all, being the youngest meant that growing up I had little to no exposure to babies. So the experience of having a baby of my own was somewhat similar to be awoken with a bucket of ice water; something I figured the universe would naturally prepare me for, and yet didn’t.

But that’s okay, people are either startlingly quick or slow learners, and in this case I picked up most aspects of infantile fatherhood fairly easily and just in time for him to no longer be an infant. One shocking realization for me (to reiterate, no expose to babies growing up) was the quantity of crying and the vast amount of things they could be crying about. But like I said, you learn and figure it out. And tears turn quickly to giggles and you make up remedies for their crying and being a parent really is an incredible God-created joy.

As he grows, however, I’ve noticed Boston, my son, cries less because of things that have yet to happen and more because of things that have happened. Rather than being upset because he’s waiting for something, it is because something has already happened that he’s coping with. And around our house, with the perpetual motion that is my son, that thing that has happened usually centers around a brand new bruise, bump, scrape, or even the seldom drop or two of blood. He’s crawling everywhere and taking his first few steps without mom or dad, so he inevitably sustains some small injury from getting from here to there.

As I read the gospels I like to look at the people that impress Jesus. I think this is a funny thought because Jesus was the guy that impressed the cosmos. He’s God’s gift to creation. He’s the crown jewel. So how could anyone or anything impress him? Yet, whether it was great faith in a Roman centurion or a chronically ill woman or the blind and the poor, Jesus made it a point to tell people when they impressed him. And if they impressed Jesus I want to be like those individuals. And Jesus seems awfully impressed by children. Heaven belongs to them, Jesus said. And unless we become like children heaven will always remain a dream for us. I watch my son with great reverence because somewhere between his shaky first step and his messy methods of feeding himself is the key to eternal life. Between sleepless nights for him and chasing our dog, lies the most sought after secret in history. And I want what my son has, because it was important to Jesus and it impressed him.

So as Boston tears through the house either on his hands and knees or his newly discovery feet and legs he will find something to run into that will start up that crying thing again. And without a doubt he will cry at every little bump or scrape or whatever, often times, I think, just so someone will come hold him, reassure him he’ll be okay, and set him back down with his confidence intact. And I watch him cry at every bump and bonk and look at myself and realize that the older I get the less I notice being hurt. It’s funny how frequently someone has to tell me, “Chris, I think you’re bleeding.” Which just strikes me as funny, because, shouldn’t I of all people know that? Yet I don’t.

And there’s something in Boston that impresses Jesus (besides his obvious cuteness), and I think one reason is because the little children recognize when they are hurt and want someone else to come make it better. I don’t notice as much anymore when I am hurt on the outside, but more often still I don’t notice when I’m hurt on the inside, when my soul is damaged. And if I do notice, I’m sure I can fix it myself. And I think part of this is the bitter sweetness of experience. While experience is a great teacher, it can sometimes make us cynical or numb. Because our souls and hearts have endured so much injury already, we don’t notice the pain so much anymore. In spiritual matters that are chronic in our lives, we sometimes say, “Well, it went away on it’s own last time, maybe it will this time too,” but no healing or reconciliation is ever sought.

Pain is such a new frontier for children that they don’t realize what is fatal and what is miniscule, and every injury requires immediate medical attention from mommy or daddy. And I watch Boston and I’m impressed by him and I know Jesus is too, because Boston knows that he doesn’t know how to treat his injuries, big or small, and someone else is much more fit to bandage his wounds. And I look at myself, often times unimpressed, because I don’t notice my pain so much anymore and don’t cry out for help even if I do. Because Jesus would love to bring me health and healing and fix the brokenness.

May you notice the pain. May you notice the brokenness in your life. I find it interesting that scripture notes several instances of Jesus healing people with infirmities of the senses; the blind, deaf, mute, and lepers (a disease that cripples the sense of physical touch). Is this because God knew one day his church would be full of people who have damaged spiritual senses, that Christ could heal? Eyes to see but are blind. Ears to hear, but cannot. We spend buckets of money trying to avoid pain and gobble up versions of the gospel that claim to take the pain out of following Jesus, but I read scripture and over and over it reminds me that there should be pain and a faith absent of pain is weak or fake! I want to know when I’m spiritually bleeding, I want to notice the pain for what it is and not brush it off or “rub some dirt on it,” and I want to cry out for Christ to come make it better! Funny how Jesus rebukes those who were blind and deaf and didn’t know it, but honors those who have the faith to admit it and seek healing at all costs. May you notice the pain. May you find the healer.

Chris Palmer
Stephenville, Texas