Bonding.

(Written in early January 2016.)

The midwife called it “bonding” on the report she left with us. “Mother and child bonding well,” it read. I hadn’t thought of it. All I knew was that I was delighted with this doll-sized child I had as my very own. I called him adorable; they called it bonding. 

As he grew, bonding happened in boots and snow pants, with miniature snowmen the right size for a little guy to pull on a sled. It happened with storybooks and Memory games, with hugs and kisses. Bonding deepened with sunshine and laughter and happy days.

And bonding happened last night.

Tyler has his first case of malaria, in spite of the precautions we have in place to prevent it. Thankfully it seems to be a mild case, but mild or not, malaria is miserable. The fever and chills had him on the couch bravely bearing the discomforts without a word of complaint. Kindly, the medication and natural cycles of malaria gave him a good evening, and he went to bed for what we hoped would be a solid night of sleep.

But it was not to be.

In the wee hours of the morning, I heard him stirring. We use a baby monitor for our children at night because our cement walls block out so much sound we can’t hear them call for us though they are only a room away. The monitor kept coming alive with little noises and whimpers, and I got up to check on the restless one.

“I feel dizzy and my head hurts,” he said. I touched his forehead and was surprised by the heat radiating from it. Even before I took his temperature, I measured out Tylenol to help cut the fever. And then, once he was tucked back into a bed on the floor (guests were in his own bed), I knelt beside him to take his temperature. His eyes were closed but he relaxed against me. I stroked his face and let my hand rest on his shoulder. It was at this unlikely moment that I realized our bond was deepening. I, kneeling on a mat at 3:00 a.m., him lying miserably beside me with a high fever. 

The thermometer finally beeped, reading 103.8. No wonder he felt dizzy and had a headache. John and I stayed awake until we were satisfied that Tyler's fever was heading in the right direction. And then I slept, hugging to my heart the warmth of a bond that comes from those moments with my child.

Ah, bonding. It can happen in the ‘best of times’ but in its strange way, it happens deeply in the ‘worst of times.' 

I wonder, then, why I shy away from hard things that have potential to deepen my relationship with God. One of the things I feared the most in moving here was having a robbery. Within two months of our stay, our house had been broken into and many things were carried off in make-shift bed sheet knapsacks. In the days immediately following, instead of the overwhelming fear I expected to face, I sensed God was with me.

Being the Ultimate Parent, He knew I was as needy as my fevered son on his mat. And He came and measured out a generous dosage of grace to help cut my fear. He stayed beside me and gave me songs to sing when shadowy evenings fell and John was gone on errands. Retrospectively, the weeks following our break-in are tainted with the sweetness of having God come and care so sweetly for me. 

I still don't wish further robberies on ourselves and I can't say I'm excited about hard times in the future, but I have the faithfulness of God in the past to bolster my courage and give me hope that my relationship with God will be deepened through the toughest of times. 

Some might call that bonding.