gentle now
Riley and I sit against the foot board of the guest room bed, Shaker planks pressing into our backs. “How long will the tornado warning last?” She asks me, looking over at my phone, the radar map I’m scrolling. I stare at the blobs of color–red, yellow, green, spreading them bigger with my fingers to get a closer look. I’ve already explained how we would grab the bedspread and throw it over our heads if need be, how I would wrap my body around her. The light from the phone lights our cheeks.
In the bathroom, just next door to the room in which we sit, I hear Adam telling Zoe how he’s finished sitting in the tub, how he wants to go upstairs. “All done,” he says, with emphasis, because she seems undeterred by all of his other protests.
“Look, it’s just until 9:45,” I hear Zoe say gently. “Hey Adam, look at this, I made us a cave. We can sit under the blanket and–“
Look. Look at this.
“Under the blanket is finished,” Adam says firmly.
“Oh 9:45,” Riley says to me. “I heard my sister say 9:45.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I say, smiling.
In the bathroom, Zoe says, “Look, Adam, let’s look at this.” I imagine her showing him something on her phone–a photograph, maybe, or a game. As he grows more impatient, her voice sounds gentler still. I can imagine her smiling, can hear it in her voice on the other side of the door, as she patiently distracts her brother from a danger he can’t quite understand and a waiting he finds bluntly frustrating. I look up, alert to their quiet voices, thinking now of the Word of God: “Always be humble and gentle. Patiently put up with each other and love each other (Ephesians 4:2 CEV).” When, I’m wondering, did my youngest bear this fruit? A chuckle escapes, because here we sit marooned and waiting warily for something to smack against a window, and I feel wildly happy.
Zoe had come to get us, came pulling us all out of other rooms when the notification about the tornado warning came, beckoning her brother to safety with her, even knowing he would not appreciate the intrusion. Her frustration with Adam’s protests once bubbled over, angry; her thoughts of him not always kind. But now, sitting witness, I hear only peace among my children, compassion, grace; only the things God harvests in growing human hearts.
“I know. It’s annoying,” she says to him. “I know you don’t want to sit here. But there might be a tornado, see. We have to stay safe.”
“No! No tornado,” Adam says, though I can hear him softening. Eventually, love always wins.
“Well, we hope not,” Zoe says carefully. “Just a little longer now. See, it’s already 9:35.”
“Mmmhmm, not too much longer,” Riley says, and I realize how carefully she’s listening too, how that gentleness has soothed her.
Look, Adam. Look. See. See. Zoe directs Adam’s attention, revealing truth, scattering light across confusion. What is our encouragement of one another if not love stubbornly pointing to truth, love bearing with us, despite our weakness? God promises to make us guides, lights illuminating the way to safety (Matthew 5:14), and doesn’t He feel wildly happy too, when we go and draw one another away from danger? If it makes me giddy, doesn’t patient, gentle, generous, rescuing love also explode God’s heart with joy? What would it be for us to grow into that calling, to bear that fruit–to love above all?
On the other side of the door now, only quiet. I imagine Adam’s eyes flicking to Zoe’s face. I imagine him looking at his watch, waiting. I imagine that recognizing a gentle, caring love beyond his own frustration, he decides to trust. Patience has given way to peace.
