Someone once told me that having a child was like having your own heart walk around outside your body. When my children hurt, my heart absorbs that pain and I cry out in prayerful anguish.
I thought the hardest part of raising children was the sleep deprived first few years. I remember protecting their little eggshell heads and wobbly necks, feeling like I was the sole one responsible for keeping calamity from swooping them away at any moment. I had no concept that the most difficult stage was in the future, when my children were battling with adulthood, watching them experience the daily challenges and joys of life.
Nevertheless, there still remains the electricity of protective touch that exists between a parent and child. The palm cradling that soft, pulsing, newborn head has matured into the arms of a hug, where one heart beats with another, the buzz and shock of once joined flesh touching again. Oh, how I love those enveloping hugs from my boys!
How are you still “touching” your children?
As Jesus was saying these things, a woman in the crowd called out, ‘Blessed is the mother who gave birth and nursed you!’