The tinkly, brittle crash of glass. In my retail store, where I work part-time, that spells trouble. Crash accompanied by a crying child spells disaster.
I ran over a few customers to get there. A ginormous bell-jar had toppled and splintered all over the middle of the store when a child reached into it. Thankfully the little girl, all gussied up in her “Go to Santa” photo clothes, was spared any injury. Only seconds later I was not and ended up dripping blood all over my growing pile of glass.
My co-worker, an amazing Speech Pathology graduate student, said, “You went straight into Mommy-Mode.” It made me stop picking up shards for a minute to think.
Mommy-Mode = action. I had to clean up the mess and secure the child. I didn’t think twice about grabbing jagged daggers of glass to keep the children and other customers from doing so.
Mommy-Mode= comfort. Days before this incident I found myself wrapped around my 5-year-old. We were standing in front of the toilet and he was enduring his first bout of stomach flu. I didn’t hesitate to hug his heaving frame to my chest. I cheered him on when he was calm. I changed my shirt and cuddled next to his fevered body the rest of the night.
Mommy-Mode = attention. While my son slept after being sick in the bathroom, I did not. I stayed awake for hours. I watched him sleep. I kissed his forehead. I listened to his breathing. I tucked him again and again.
I can’t help thinking about “Mommy Mode” being a weaker version of what the “Father Mode” is from Heaven. I forget how often He has chosen to remove the jagged shards of broken soul or shattered dream from my heart. Too quickly I believe it was I who avoided that accident or screw up at work or other problem which miraculously worked itself out. My head becomes wearied from holding it up rather than resting it upon the chest of the One whose heartbeat keeps mine going.
Tonight, I’ll ask for Him to go into Father Mode. And I’ll wait until I feel arms around me and a kiss on my forehead. Tonight I pray you do too.