Arms of the mother
She lays heavy on my chest, her little 18-month-old body racked with fever. She's moaning with every labored breath. My heart breaks. If only I had the power to take her sickness from her! If only I could give her my strength.
The fever spikes tonight. The dry, barking cough comes back. I hold her to my chest while the medicine tries to ease her symptoms, her body limp and hot against mine. Fear toys at the back of my mind and I know tonight will be another sleepless night, as I stand watch over every breath.
I brush her damp curls back from her forehead, kissing her softly, holding her close. What a blessing she is to me. Her open and smiling personality, those bright eyes and constant giggles. And even now in her pain, she looks to me.
I am mommy, I'm the one who makes everything better. I'm the one who fixes broken toys. I'm the one who kisses better bumps and bruises. The one who stands between her and the harshness of the world.
And somehow, though I can't take her sickness from her, just her being in the arms of mommy offers some kind of magic consolation. Despite my own frailty, she looks to me for strength. To her, I am the healer, the sustainer, the righter of wrongs. To my daughters, I'm superhuman.
I know other pain will come, and my kisses won't always be enough to make it disappear. I know my arms will be just as helpless as they are now to ease her suffering, but they will always be open wide. Always saying, if I could take your pain from you, I gladly would! But I will do what I know I can do, I will hold you till it passes.
May we all find healing in the arms of the mother.
