Thursday, March 7, 2013

Glimpse of the past

Last night I went to lay out my kids' clothes for the morning like I always do.  My daughter reached out and grabbed at my arm from her top bunk so I let myself be caught.  She was half-asleep.  I suddenly thought of her as a toddler child in her bed in Ethiopia with a cold, in the dark, needing her mother's arm to be near, needing to feel the solid rock of a parent.

She was so small, fragile, sick, in the dim room.  I often forget her fragility because of the iron toughness of her, produced after suffering more than little children should in the years before I met her. 

She whispered, her head still on the pillow and not even looking at me, "Mom, can you come lay with me in my bed?"  So I did without hesitating.  She draped her arm across me to anchor me down, and she felt like a two-year-old, not tough at all.  It made me love her more. 

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