In Psalm 136, the phrase “His steadfast love endures forever” occurs twenty-six times. It echoes through Scripture right into the rhythm of our own lives because He knows how important it is for us to understand His love is steady and sure. God reminds us we have a loving Father at every opportunity. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day He responds and attunes to us, renewing the bond and rewiring the mind as He makes all the hard things into something new again. Attachment to God works in much the same way. I held his warm body against my own and let it sink in. It takes being held, being honored, and being heard over and over again. Reaching for a hand that you know for certain will be there - well, it takes time to get to the knowing part. It builds moment upon moment, like sand filling an hourglass lifting itself up to the top.
But when we welcomed this child through adoption, bringing with him a story that’s only his to tell, we found something new to marvel at.Īttachment, that mysterious, primal mixture of love and need and attunement, doesn’t just happen. We’d been parents four times over at that point, long accustomed to the wonder of watching a child grow up. Our little guy came to us when he was two years old. Soon, dark lashes rested on pale pink cheeks, and his breath slowed to an even rhythm, the rise and fall of his belly pressed right up next to mine. His eyelids slowly began to fall, even as he kept his eyes on mine. I whispered to him he was my good boy and that everything was indeed all right. And his eyes held an expectation that I would. His sweet face had a soft, relaxed look granting me the power to whisper that everything was okay, to tell him who he is, to restore all things to right-ness. As soon as I saw his face I recognized that look - I’d seen it on the faces of my four other children in the dark of night in that same rocking chair. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he was staring at me. As we rocked in the dark, I stared straight ahead in hopes he’d fall back asleep quickly. Right away, he stopped crying, and his agitated breaths settled down. I scooped him up, and we settled into a rhythm, snuggled in the rickety old rocking chair. When I walked into his room, he was sobbing loud, gulping cries - the kind where you can’t quite catch your breath.
He came to live with us several months ago, and this was the first time he’d woken in the night. A few days ago my youngest child woke me up crying in the middle of the night, perhaps with a bad dream.
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