Rumblings

Ezra awakens with a frown pressing down on her usual bright countenance. She sinks to the second step from the landing and leans her elbows heavily on her knees.  She looks at me solemnly.  Everything is wrong.

"Perhaps you are hungry?" I suggest, as I try to take her hand.  She denies me the privilege and shrugs, then slogs down the stairs as if her feet are sticking to mud.  "Perhaps you should go back to bed?" I wonder out-loud anticipating the flat glance I receive in silent reply.

Ezra sets her own breakfast place with graham crackers and my mom's homemade jam.  Her favorite striped glass usually reflects her cheerful mood. Today, however, she doesn't care.  The two graham crackers break in the center.  She is mad.  I carefully remove two sheets from the snug brown paper, with a dramatic flare, and place them on her plate, "Taadaa!"  She runs from the table, back upstairs, pulls the blanket over her head and begins to sob!

I stroke her back as she hides from sight.  I am reminded of the early days, when she was fifteen months old and had only just arrived from Ethiopia.  There was a morning similar to this one, not in outward mood, but in the strength of character and independence revealed.  The crib blanket could barely cover her. When I attempted to help, she kicked at the parts I'd smoothed, then would try in vain to pull all corners flat.  Her tiny foot always appeared as soon as she'd gotten the edge up to her neck.  Again and again she attempted to care for herself in this ironic display of using a flimsy blanket without success.  And yet in her stubbornness, she refused to allow the one who loved her to help.  I recall feeling heartsick watching her reject my care, while the lesson prodded my inward independent spirit.  How often I'd tried to control my life without surrendering the most vulnerable places to God, as if His help were only for designated bigger things, outer struggles or life involving the world beyond. Without God, my futile attempts were as vivd as my tiny baby's refusal for help...then.  But time is the great differentiator when trial and error prove our foolishness and independence fails us enough, need invites humility to gently enter the scene and everything changes.

I kiss the blanket-clad head and explain, "When you are ready, I will teach you to remove the graham crackers, unbroken...then you can do it yourself." Several minutes pass before the willingness can take affect.  Ezra joins me in the kitchen downstairs and climbs into her chair.  Her plate is empty because I have already shimmied the crackers back into their tight space.  I show her the careful way.  Her first attempt fails.  I remove the broken ones and the next one she takes slips out perfectly!  She "jams it" (as Zion would say) and almost smiles.  Then she asks for orange juice.  With a sigh I admit, "The only way for juice today is if you make it yourself, but you must let Mommy help you."

Ezra eats quietly, taking time to decide.  Then she asks for help.  I give it. Together we make a wonderful team.  I am thankful for her reminder of deeper things.  I am also thankful that the rare morning storm of bad mood has rumbled away, leaving clear eyes and calm skies ahead.  I wish to shoo the storm out the door once and for all, but we know it will return on a different day or hour, to attack another.  When it does, I hope I'll be patient enough to learn the next lesson!