well, of course
On the other side of a migraine, my Riley begins to sing:
From the ash I am born again
Forever safe in the Savior’s hands
I stop folding and let the warm towel fall from my fingers, listening.
She missed worship today, let her head fall like a rock on my shoulder during the opening prayer. Amen, and she’s whispering to me, tapping her forehead lightly for emphasis. “Mom, I have a throbbing headache.” I search for medicine in the bag she carries and she closes her eyes. A single tear travels the slope of her cheek, and I start to pray. Right from the thin space of praise, I charge into the throne room and reach for mercy. It’s a love-bought privilege—that ability to boldly go right where mercy and grace live to get what we need, and I’m in great need. Riley only mentions pain if it’s excruciating, and she only consents to “miss things” if her body simply will not cooperate. She leans against me, letting the outline for the sermon and the hot pink pen in her hands slide down into my lap. I can feel her willing herself still, pressing her head into the dip just south of my shoulder blade. I stroke her shoulder, her head, her arm with my fingers, while we sing about the faithfulness and majesty and glory of God, and every so often, I hear the faintest mmmhmm rise assenting from her lips. Maybe Riley can’t sit up straight, but still, she can worship. I’d walk her out and gather her home, my arms around her shoulders like a shield, but Kevin is leading worship today and we’ve all driven there together. And anyway, I can’t think of a better place for us to fall apart at the edges. So we stay and we worship, like a couple of limping soldiers in a victory parade.
I always miss Riley when she’s swallowed up by pain; I miss her chirpy voice and ever-agreeable nature, her ability to choose a Godly whatever (Philippians 4:8). When we get home, I cover her cheeks with kisses and pull a royal-purple blanket up over her shoulders, urging my daughter to sleep.
Leaving the towels now, I walk downstairs, only to find Riley sitting in her favorite place at the bar in the kitchen. She glances up at me, grinning. “I’m back to my normal self,” she says lightly, sounding relieved, “I bet everyone’s been praying for me.”
“Of course we have been praying,” I say, walking over to touch her rosy cheek with my hand, pushing back the stray silken strands of hair that fall into her face.
“Did you ask everyone to pray?” She says, and I fumble. I had been too focused on the creases in her expression, on the way she struggled to keep her eyes open enough to walk, on the way she collapsed against the seat in the car. I hadn’t thought to send out an alert for her to summon other voices, though heaven certainly echoed with mine, with her dad’s, with the voices of a few friends whom I knew would pray without a request. Humbly, I hear her gentle warning. For Riley there is always only one first course of action. Looking now into her sharp, ocean eyes, I’m reminded yet again of how deceptively a mighty soul may be cloaked by earthly troubles, about the upside-down nature of the kingdom of Christ. My daughter is a fierce, strong warrior, but very few people know it. Riley holds prayer as her most imposing and formidable weapon.
“Well, no.” I say slowly, catching her alert appraisal. “I was too concerned about you. But a lot of people were still praying for you, even without me asking.”
She considers this briefly, and as is her way, easily relents. “I bet you were, Mom Jones. Yes, they certainly did, Mom Jones,” she says. Every one Riley loves best becomes Jones, if they’ll agree. “And God Jones took my migraine right away. And I got to do my job today. And now I feel like my normal self again.” There it is now, her Godly whatever. All this she delivers with cheer, turning back to her phone and all the notifications that still await her notice.
“And I’m so glad you do,” I say, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Satisfied and whispering thank you, I turn back toward the stairs and my towels.
“Yep, I do,” Riley chirps behind me. “God Jones heard our prayers and took my migraine right away. And Mom Jones?”
“Yes?” I turn back to the sight of her appraising me yet again, perched up on a stool at the bar, holding her phone.
“Thank you for helping me out during my migraine.”
I pause at the foot of the stairs, stopped still by the simplest expression of gratitude, unnecessary from a child to her mama. I take in the gentle lines of Riley’s face, the curve of her shoulders, the thick ribbons of hair she’s piled on top of her head in a bun. Well, of course, my heart whispers with an imperceptible shrug. What else does a mama do but lend her children strength when they come up short? And yet, her acknowledgement brings sweetest joy; it fills love to overflowing; it moves me to more thanks-giving. “Of course,” I say, grinning, “I love you. I will always help you out.”
I wonder now, taking the stairs to return to my folding: Does God feel something similar when we say our thank yous? Doesn’t our good Father also shrug with well, of course? Certainly He delights in our intentional thanks-giving, in our acknowledgement of His provision, but since caring for His children comes as the most natural outpouring of God’s unfailing love, I imagine also His wide grin, His “I love you, child. Of course. ” Maybe sometimes His greatest wish is that we’ll come to fully rely upon and even to eagerly expect every blessing of his with-ness.
So I trot back up the stairs as, on the other side of a migraine, my Riley begins again to sing:
‘Cause you are, you are, you are my freedom
Your love, your love, your love neverending
oh oh oh…
[Alive by Hillsong Young and Free (Riley’s favorite:))]
