It was only 5 1/2 weeks that she rested and grew in my arms of love.  Holding. Nursing. Sleeping. Cuddling. Wearing. Loving. And all but 3 hours of that was spent in mostly physical attachment. Her little body becoming an extension of my body.  My breasts her soft trough. My torso and arms her custom fitted cradle.  She only cried a couple of times that we recall.  I wouldn’t allow much of her needful cries. And I am thankful for that. Because I’m not haunted by her sweet cries or memories of crying. It was soft murmurs and squeaky Squeals.  The dramatic big deep breaths followed by restful sighs.   

When she lived with us, she was delightful. Please place heavy emphasis on the word light.   She put a spongy spring in our step. A bounce to the cadence of our family rhythm.  A uplifting breeze of joy that was refreshing and temperate. And the song in my heart has continued to play. 

But the weight of empty arms feels more than I can bear at times. The sheer mass of longing. The density of the distance between us.  The itch that cannot be scratched quite yet makes me restless. My arms ache with the heavy weight of nothing. And I must make an exchange because I’ll die trying to carry this load of longing. This yoke that afflicts me.  

Who would make that trade? Take this death sentence? Bear the brunt of the crippling weight? Bridge the gap? And take care of me while I wait. . . 

I’ll take it he says. I got it He repeats.  And I pause. Maybe I’ll be a martyr and wear my pain in a bitterly victorious way that actually wins me nothing. Forever. 

Hey- this is what I’m here for. This is why you love me. . . Gently He waits,  as all gentlemen do. 

But He won’t fight me for it. He won’t force me to take the crown and Give Him the crap.  He’s a servant leader not a dictator. Not a master with a whip.  But a master who took the lashes of the whip in service to me.  

And when I hold on to my pain, I make His suffering worthless.  When I reject the healing, I make the most powerful man that ever walked the earth useless.  No Lord , not I.  The pain in the offering is the truest act of worship I’ll make.  And you are worth letting go of my beloved pain.  For I love the giver even more than the gift. And oh! How I loved that precious gift! 

“For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” Matthew 11:30