...frail God in the hands of clueless humanity

The hands that first held Mary’s Child were hard from working wood,

From boards they sawed and planed and filed and splinters they withstood.

This day they gripped no tool of steel, they drove no iron nail,

But cradled from the head to heel our Lord, newborn and frail.

---Thomas H. Troeger, 1985

I remember the hours well. Against all standards of logic and decency, the medical staff at West Paces Ferry Hospital in cozy intown Atlanta GA had seen fit to hand over a tiny, 8’12”, absolutely lovely newborn boy to two not tiny, already sleep-starved, absolutely besotted grownups, to…what? Wait, we were supposed to take care of that tiny creature? We, who knew nothing? We, of the too big hands, and the too loud voices, and the good intentions and brokedown followthrough? We?

And yet, there we were, tiny babe buckled into tiny rear-facing carseat, on the short surface road drive to the tiny house the babe would call home. Into the nursery, walls telling the story of teddy bears serving tea to bunnies and geese, and pigs in pearls. And, lulled to sleep by the purring car motor and the air conditioner against the August heat, laid (maybe gently) into tiny skirted bassinet. To sleep…and sleep…and sleep. As clueless parents paced, and fretted, and looked at our books (the Dr Spock and the hippie one, for balance) in this pre-Google age. Finally, at 12 hours, frantic parents called the emergency nurse line, all to say, the tiny baby seems to be sleeping so peacefully. After a, well, pregnant pause, the tired nurse murmured, and this is a problem how?

Imagine, the God of the universe embodied in the frailty of a babe, entrusted to the rough, calloused hands of a clueless father…never having cradled “God with us” before, and only the fog of the half-remembered dream of angel whisper to guide and reassure.

Who’d imagine? …our Lord, newborn, and frail…

...in our best moments

Like a mother with her children You will comfort us each day,

giving guidance on our journey, as we seek to find our way.

When we walk through fiery trials, You will help us take a stand;

when we pass through troubled waters, You hold out Your tender hand.

---Jann Aldredge-Clanton, 2000

Motherhood is often a balancing act. When to insist on vegetables first at dinner, when to sneak a little dessert in? When to stretch that last bedtime story to two (or three, or…)? When to let the baby cry it out, when to gather her up in your arms and tuck her in beside you? When shorts pants and knickers, when blue jeans and khakis? When to protect, when to challenge? When to comfort, when to brush off? When to support, when to caution? When to hold on, when to let go?

The same could be said of fatherhood, I’m sure (don’t know, never been a father). The thing is, this holy dance of parenthood is a weaving, the weft and warp that colors the character of our children. And God, in whose image we are created, and our pattern in all things, models for us both the compassion and the courage of a mother or a father for us.

For God offers both comfort and guidance, each in appropriate measure and at appropriate time. And when flood waters or trial fires rise around us, God’s hand is reaching out --- ahead of us, to rescue us; or at our backs, to urge us on to our own brave action. Because, in our best moments, that’s what mothers, and fathers, do.

We can hear You gently saying, “Do not worry, do not fear;

for I’ll always go beside you; every moment I am near.”