Tiny Miracles

My baby crawled today.  Well...not actually crawled, maybe, but he certainly did get from point A to point B, and not without difficulty. 

We were supposed to be getting him dressed, but he was more interested in the bright red air hockey paddle that his brother had left lying in the middle of the floor.  And as he rolled away onto his tummy, lifted his thick little self onto his hand and pulled his knees under him, I watched, fascinated.  Like every one of my babies he is a miracle to me, but perhaps it is my age.  I'm ready to slow down and enjoy these little wonders.  So I watched.

With his eyes locked on the prize, he began to rock back and forth on his knees, and then he suddenly lurched forward, pinning his little hands beneath him and landing squarely on his face.  It didn't seem to faze him.  Quickly he pulled his hands forward and propped himself up again.  More rocking and another lurch, but this time he kept his head raised and fell onto his chest.  Then, while remaining on his belly, his little arm reached out, stretching its full length, his little fingers straining toward the object still outside of his grasp.  With all this effort he had covered only inches of ground.

I expected any moment to hear a cry of frustration, but it did not come, so I watched.  His tiny feet kicked and kicked in a desperate attempt to bring the object closer.  Instead, his little body scooted forward mere millimeters.  This seemed to inspire him to renew his efforts, and once again he was back on his knees, rocking and lurching.  I watched it all, and as I watched my eyes filled with tears.

I cried not only over my baby's first attempts at independence, though I was witnessing a little miracle.  I think I cried over something bigger.  I think those tears were for the miracle of our human ability to try.  To grow.  To fail.  And to try again.  The human struggle begins at birth, does it not?  And for a moment, I think I glimpsed God's mercy.  How I loved my little baby.  How I wanted him to succeed.  How I understood his necessary struggle.  Do I judge God to be any different in His perfect love? 

I don't think He is as impatient with me as I sometimes believe Him to be.  No.  I think He expects me to struggle.  He knows it is necessary for my growth.  As I crawl to Him, I think He celebrates all the rocking and lurching, the inches of ground I cover, and the efforts I make to get back up when I fall.  He is my Father.  He loves me.  Those were tears of gratitude, both for me as a mother and for me as a child, all at once witnessing a little miracle.