She cries in the night, loud and rough. I tread softly to her room, gently push open the door and come around the side of the crib with open arms, ready to soothe away the fear, pain, hunger or chill that has rattled her beyond her capability.
But instead of reaching for me, she pushes away my hands, screams louder, calling for Papa.
My heart breaks, as it has with every hard turn with this one.
Why won’t she just let me love on her? It’s my job to help her feel better, to make her feel safe, to tease out the nuance of her needs and see to them. I do this consistently. Why won’t she trust me now? Why does she fight against me this time?
Suddenly I realize that the taste of the tears running down my cheeks are the same of a Father whose children push Him away even as they cry out in pain.
And I release my hurt into this truth: He knows.