Of the many Nativities my wife collected with which my daughter has wonderfully decorated our home for Christmas, only two place the infant in his mother’s arms.
Sure, the cradle, the hay, I get it. At some point the new mom needs her rest. But when artisans design these things, they have a wonderful opportunity to portray the true tenderness of that night: the little one cradled not by hay, but cradled in the mother’s arms.
If there’s one place our youngest grandchildren wanted to be, even and maybe especially, in the weeks and then days that preceded my wife’s homegoing as her body succumbed to cancer, it was wrapped in a blanket with grandma.
Whether grandma was reading stories, or watching her little ones demonstrate their iPad dexterity, they were happiest snuggled in her arms.
As I was.
What a portrait of love, and joy, and contentment it is now – though to be honest not without tears – to see couples hand-in-hand, a husband’s arm reached around his wife in church as she responds by scooting closer, safe, and satisfied, loved, and cherished.
The moans and frets and sobs, the skinned knees, the death of a pet, the letter or phone call or knock at the door with news that our worst fears are realized, where do we go?
A rhetorical question.
Picturing myself again in her embrace, my hand in hers, hearing her voice, these sooth my sorrow, these memories quiet my soul.
