I’m A Mom Who Can’t Always Make It Better

“This will sting for a few seconds.” I blew my breath on the newly scraped flesh.

I ran toward my four year old as he limped nearer. The tears flowing down his cheeks multiplied with the sight of mom and blood oozing from his knee. A kiss, bandaid, tear-wiping, and mom-cuddles will “make it better.”

My kids had their share of boo-boos. Especially, Caleb, our son. A Ninja at heart. Bike wrecks, jumps off high things, roller skates would not cooperate with his feet, and many run-ins with the concrete at the swimming pool. Usually the lifeguard’s whistle was too late. Busted chin or bottom lip—corroboration that hard surfaces are not our friends—and adversaries of mothers.

Knees, elbows, and shins are tender places. The good Lord knew how to construct the human body, this I know. “The padding is sparse on certain parts, Lord.” (As if I have a case in point.)

Pads for the knees and elbows and helmets are safeguards becoming friends to moms. Mothers around the globe are thankful, yet secretly wish rolls of industrial-strength bubble wrap were also available. Caleb would have benefited from a mommy and mummy’s bubble wrap encasement.

They happen—little mishaps of a minor scrape, cut, or bruise. Minor first aid required. My children were right. Cleaning a fresh wound stings. Particularly alcohol. “Ouch, it’s stinging, it’s burning, it hurts.” Leaning in close, blowing my breath on the stinging. Hoping to override the pain until it subsides. That’s what moms do . . . we make it better.

I passed on the easy-to-bruise-trait to my children. Bruises in a variety of shape and size appear on our earth suits. At times, evidence of memory; yesterday, I bumped  into the corner of the bookshelf. But often the aftermath of something not recollected, “how did that get there?”

In life’s stages; childhood, teen years, and young adult, my children often lacked padding on certain parts. The tender places; hearts, minds, feelings, and broken spirits. As Megan and Caleb’s mom, I desired nothing more than to make it better. I still do.

I run toward them as they limp nearer. But I can’t always make it better. I may not know or understand, “how did that get there?”

Yesterday, she must have bumped into the corner of life’s mishap shelf. Maybe, he had a run-in with the concrete in life. The whistle blew too late. The hard surfaces of life are not his friends.

They carry invisible boo-boos—inside “ouches.” Flesh and feelings freshly scraped needing cleaning and care. And we carry them. Children. Moms. Grown-ups. The boo-boos are there. Old and new.

The breath of heaven blows on newly scraped flesh and broken spirits until the pain subsides. A kissing-tear-wiping-make-it-better-kind-of-love. From God. For His children. For our children. For me and you.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73:26 (ESV)

Christ runs toward us as we limp nearer to Him.

“Come, my children, and listen to me, and I will teach you to fear the Lord. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.” Psalm 34:11, 18 (NLT)

 

© 2015 by Karen Friday