Lent Photo a Day: Near

Most of us spend most of our lives near other people. We sit near our co-workers at the office. We sit near our family or friends when we eat our meals. Even though we’re in our cars, we’re near many other people (also in their cars) while we’re driving. We’re near other people at the grocery store, in the doctor’s office, at a club, in a meeting. We’re so near that we’re often actually physically touching other people in an elevator, at a concert, on the subway, waiting in a crowded line. Wherever we are, someone else is nearly always near.

And yet, as physically near as we are to many people on a regular basis, we’re rarely emotionally near to very many. Perhaps a spouse or significant other, perhaps a best friend, maybe even a parent or an adult child. But the number of people whom we would consider our literal “nearest and dearest” can likely be counted on our fingers, possibly even the fingers on just one hand. Why do we have so few people to whom we are near? Because to be near to someone, you need to trust each other. And trust is not so easy to establish.

I love to watch the birds eating at my bird feeder. In the summer, my feeder is on the far side of the pool, so I can watch from a safe distance without scaring them away. But this winter, the feeder is too hard to access through the many feet of snow, so I’ve been throwing seed onto the porch. And I find that I can watch from much nearer, but I need to be patient and wait for the birds to learn to trust me. I have to be quiet, and still, and patient. I have to listen rather than speak. I have to sit still rather than move around. I have to wait rather than act. And if I do all those things for long enough, the birds will come to trust me, and they will come near. But if I startle them with a sharp noise or a sudden movement, I lose their trust and have to start all over again before they are willing to once again come near. 

Relationships are much the same way. They require listening, and stillness, and patience. Trust can only be established over time, and it is easily broken with a careless word or a hasty movement. But if we can only teach ourselves to listen and be still and be patient, we are rewarded when someone trusts us enough to come near.

Near.

It's Just a Matter of Trust

Ryan would happily spend all day long marching around, hanging on to my hands. In fact, he’s got me so well trained in providing said hands that in the middle of doing something else, he’ll decide he wants to stand up and walk and without even looking around, he’ll just hold up his hands and grab, assuming (usually correctly) that my hands will be right there, ready and waiting for him.

It’s such a lovely demonstration of trust. He doesn’t need to confirm that I’m there, or that I know what he wants, or that I’m willing to help. He doesn’t need to see me, or to see my hand and reach for it. He just reaches out, like a surgeon who needs a scalpel, without a doubt in his mind that my hand will magically be there for him. I find the most interesting part of that to be the “not looking”. When you sit down at the dinner table and reach for your fork, you know the fork is there, and yet you still look at it before you pick it up. You don’t just blindly reach out and assume it will somehow land in your hand. But that’s exactly what Ryan does. That’s true trust.

What a wonderful thing for a child to have that kind of trust. No doubt, no hesitation. Expecting Mom or Dad to be there for him all the time, with never a flicker of thought that they might not be. He plunges through life, absolutely secure that we will be there to protect him from dangers and to provide for his every need. And we do. When he climbs the stairs, I’m right behind him to be sure he doesn’t fall back down. When he scrambles across the couch, I’m at the edge making sure he doesn’t launch himself onto the floor. When he’s playing beside the pool, one of us is always between him and the water. When he’s playing in the pool, Daddy has him securely to be sure he doesn’t try to breathe underwater or forget that he can’t actually swim. We strap him into the car seat, the grocery cart, and the stroller so he doesn’t get himself into trouble. Everywhere he goes, and everything he does, he doesn’t need to be concerned with his own safety because we do it for him. He trusts us to protect him. He trusts us utterly and completely.

But someday, probably sooner than I expect, he’ll decide that he’s ready to trust himself. He’ll walk without holding my hands. He’ll bob in the pool without assistance for a split-second. He’ll climb the stairs without a human cushion behind him. He’ll launch himself off the couch. And he’ll probably crash into something, get water up his nose, fall down a stair or two, and land on the floor on his head. And he’ll probably cry. But he’ll also probably get up, dust himself off, and do it all over again. And he’ll discover that he’s pretty trustworthy, too.

Snuggle Bug

One of the best parts of having a baby is having a warm little person snuggle right into your arms. Whether he's wiggling and crying and snurfling and getting various bodily fluids all over your shoulder while he's doing it, or whether he's quietly nodding off and sleepily fading into you with a soft hug, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

One of the things that makes it feel so wonderful is how perfectly trusting the baby is. He can relax in the knowledge that you will protect and take care of him, and that he is completely safe in your arms. And doesn't it feel wonderful to be trusted like that? It's a heavy responsibility, but also a great honor. I want to do everything I can to live up to that trust.

So while Ryan is snuggling under my chin, I am thinking about his future. I am planning on how I will teach him skills, like walking and reading, and how I will teach him manners and courtesy. I am planning on how to answer his questions like, "Why is the sky blue?" and "Who is God?" and "Where did I come from?" and "Why do people have to die?" I am thinking about what I'll say if he doesn't make the team, or if he flunks a test, or if his best friend ditches him, or if his girlfriend breaks up with him. I am thinking about what I'll say when he does make the team, or ace a test, or make a new best friend, or introduce me to his girlfriend. I'm imagining what he'll be like on vacation this summer, and next summer, and endless summers to come. I'm picturing him at 6 months old, and 6 years old, and 16 years old.

And I am mentally promising him that I will be there for him for all of those moments, joys and sorrows, successes and failures, loves and losses. And some of them I'll be able to help, and some of them will see me standing helplessly by. But I will be there, loving him, no matter what.

Because he'll always be my little snuggle bug.