A mother's comfort

As a mother comforts her child,
    so will I comfort you. – Isaiah 66:13a

Wonder week. Four-month sleep regression. Whatever you want to call it, we're in it.

D's on the cusp of learning new skills and the world as he knows it is undergoing dramatic changes.  He's moody, he's unpredictable. He won't go to sleep unless I'm the one to put him down. Daddy? No, thank you – you are there to make me laugh, but certainly not to put me to bed.

It's exciting to see him develop and grow. But it's tiring, draining, when he cries his eyes out, when – exhausted – he fights sleep.

When I came across Isaiah 66:13 in the past, I thought about being on the receiving end of my mother's comfort. Of climbing into her bed on Sunday mornings and snuggling against her warm body. Of the way she can still reduce me to tears when she looks at me – really looks at me – and asks me what's wrong when I'm feeling sick or sad. Of back stratches and head rubs.

It's a humbling experience to now be on the giving end of a mother's comfort. And more, to imagine that God – the Creator of the universe and everything in it – comforts humans, comforts me, as a mother comforting her child.

That He loves me enough to pace with me – wailing – in His arms, gently shushing in my ear. That He draws me close to Himself, nourishing me with His own body. That when I cry out, He rushes to attend to me, to reassure me. That He loves me, loves Ben, loves D, with the same tenderness that this mother loves her son – but more, with a perfect tenderness, one that doesn't tire, that doesn't drain.

That the Creator would not only care for us, but longs also to comfort us.