Little Fingers, Big Hand

Leaving church.
People joining us for lunch.
Nothing in the fridge.
Deb will go with friends to direct them.
I'll take Aria home via the store.
Got a basket in one hand.
Trying to keep her content in the other.
And tune in, engage.
(She's babbling about the shiny helium balloons.
Takes me a while to figure that out.)
While not forgetting all the stuff I'm there for.
Get to the checkout.
Put the groceries down.
Fish my wallet out.
Aria's restless 'cause she's been held too long.
And I've run out of hands.
Put her down.
"Stay close, baby girl."
She tries to bolt, but I've got her blocked.
Fish card out of wallet.
Now she's playing with the previous person's cart.
Ain't she cute?
Distracted by paying cashier and stuff.
Half hear, half feel empty cart roll over her finger.
Nuts-rats-shoot.
I've got her up before she even starts crying.
Doesn't stop the outburst.
All eyes on me, or her or whatever.
I don't really care.
I only care that she's hurt.
Finish paying, grab bags.
Trying to look at her injured hand.
It's sore, she's hiding it from me.
Hasty exit.
Torn between melting ice cream and crying baby.
Bundle her in car seat.
Big tears welling in her eyes.
And dripping off her cheeks.
But it doesn't look bad.
Mercifully.
Offering soothing comforting sounds.
"Sorry, baby girl."
"You're okay."
"We're almost there."
Try to get home fast.
But traffic sucks.
And I'm thinking.

"Sorry" is something that they say in Zimbabwe in moments like that. It used to drive me nuts: it wasn't your fault, why are you saying sorry? And now I'm in the cultural divide. I'm saying sorry, does that mean I'm taking responsibility? (This brings another realisation: Canada has insufficient cultural ways for sympathising in pain. It was natural in Zimbabwe, however awkward it sounded to us. Word like "sorry" and "shame" were used as terms of instant commiseration.) For my own part, the incident is being mentally replayed multiple times.

She was rolling the cart back and forth. I saw the danger in that, but I was managing it. She wasn't being reckless, actually quite gentle and controlled, or I would have surely intervened. It was a matter of inches -- no more than three. But evidently three was enough. I suppose I could have bodily prevented it from rolling back, so it would only go forward. Furthermore, I only really needed both hands for a moment, and then I could have had her up again. Safe. But the world isn't safe.

I want her to explore and be free, but I also want her to be aware of the dangers that exist. I'm trying to figure out where that balance lies. And it's a moving target, so I know I'll never have it sorted out. But I'm least trying to get a handle on the principle. What I have to come to terms with is that there is enough danger and risk in the world to ensure that she will feel pain. And ultimately this is where faith gets put on trial. Because God allows each of us to feel pain and to suffer. Whether there's a reason for that pain, and whether its redemption is possible is something I must leave up to him. But the stakes are raised when it's a new life that you've chosen to bring into the world. That's a whole new level -- a different dimension -- of trust.

Her crying simmers down slowly.
As if she's willing herself to be comforted by me.
She's finally calm, sucking her thumb.
We pull in, and I park close.
Unclip her, and get her in the front door.
Set her on her feet and she goes tottering off to find Mom.
She finds everyone in the kitchen.
Their reaction makes her arrival a grand entrance.
I hear it all the way from outside.
She's surrounded by so much love.
Enough to make a hurt finger insignificant.
Perhaps that was the point.
OK, touché.

And the ice cream didn't melt either.
Double touché.

If He cares about little hurt fingers and ice cream...
Wow!
The important truths always come at you sideways.