"Mama," my five-year-old tells me, "if I ask Soren to give me a hug, he won't, but if I fake cry, he'll hug me every time."
And it's true. My nineteen month old son doesn't say much yet, but he is a barometer for the pain of others. He's like a beloved dog in this way - a silent comforter. When one of his sisters is crying, he walks up to her, wraps his chubby little arms around her waist, and puts his head against her chest. Then he just stands there holding her for as long as she'll let him. It is magical to see the transformation in his sisters as they experience the wordless comfort of their brother - care and concern with no stipulations or strings attached.
I am not much of a crier, but one morning in a fit of hormones I was walking around the house crying, holding Soren on my hip as I pulled laundry out of the dryer and tried to get everyone ready for a day of school and work. Soren took my face in his hands to look me in the eyes, then touched our foreheads together, pulled back to look in my eyes again, and then put his head on my shoulder and gave me a big hug. He continued to do this for as long as the tears flowed, which wasn't long since I quickly became caught up in this profound moment of connection with my son. I have never experienced anything quite like it.
Soren doesn't care why the tears are falling, and he makes no distinction as to who he will comfort or how or when. When his sister is in time-out (and is loudly lamenting her punishment), Soren runs down the hallway to her bedroom, pushes the door open, and throws himself on top of her in a hug. Although being alone is generally an important component of a time-out, we do not prevent him from rushing to comfort his sister because we want to encourage this instinct.
He reminds me of his father in this way. While most of us want to head for the hills when faced with sickness and death, my husband has chosen to run toward it, to run toward those in pain and to sit with those who mourn, to look death in the face again and again and to avoid the urge to run away. He has chosen the hard calling of chaplaincy. He is brave and kind, which are two things I pray for my son every night before bedtime. I don't know how Soren will choose to be brave and kind in this world, but I love seeing these little seeds bearing fruit in him already.
There are so many hard things going on in our world right now. It seems that everywhere I look, people are hurting. Individuals and groups. Young and old. Black and white. Christian and Muslim. Gay and straight. People are being marginalized and pushed out, beaten down both figuratively and literally. People are being misunderstood, and too often fear and hatred seem to have the final word. I feel overwhelmed by it all. I sometimes feel hopeless and helpless in the face of the violence and the fear and the hatred.
And then I think of my son running to comfort his sister, and a little spark of hope wells up inside of me.
The world doesn't need more referees, more people deciding who's in and who's out. The world doesn't need more judgment and more dividing lines. It doesn't need people who look for differences rather than commonalities. And I don't think that's what most of us are doing.
Here's the thing. The world doesn't even need people who have it all together. The world doesn't need people with Pinterest-worthy homes, with clean minivans and organized fridges (thank God!). The world doesn't need people who are better dressed or better looking. The world doesn't need people who are ready - I remember a certain guy who was given his marching orders from a burning bush and was still like, "No, thanks. I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy." I will NEVER be ready, and neither will you.
The world needs people who run toward pain rather than away from it. It needs those who sit with the dying and hold the hands of the ones who grieve and, in doing so, show the world that God cares and cries and comforts. The world needs people who are scared and unprepared and willing to put themselves out there anyway, to use their gifts to be brave and kind in the world in their own unique ways. The world needs people who run down the hallway with the unsteady gait of a toddler, who fling the door open and rush in to love and to comfort.
The world needs me, and the world needs you. God, help us.
