I found out by accident that my first son knew my heartbeat. He started to cry a few hours after he was born, and I picked him up and happened to rest his head near my heart. Within seconds Benjamin calmed down and was comforted by the familiar thump, thump, thump.
It didn’t work when my husband held him next to his heart. Benjamin could hear and smell the difference, and it was me he wanted.
With Colt, it’s my voice that soothes. When he’s upset, I put my mouth near his ear and whisper that I’m there, that everything’s OK. My cheek brushes against his. He reaches out to hold my finger and he quiets. The redness in his face fades to pink. I’m the one he’s most used to, the one who offers the most security and peace.
And I like that.
When I first became a mom, I knew I’d spend the first few weeks memorizing the boys’ faces. I’d learn the meaning of their cries, and I’d cherish the first time they each raised their chubby arms to hug my neck. But I didn’t realize that they already knew so much more about me and the body we had shared.
In the moments after birth, they didn’t need an introduction. They knew where they had come from and where they belonged.
I want to be that way with God. I want to know him so well that I never have to question if he’s on my side because I’ll already be standing next to him. I want to be close enough to his face that I can hear him when he whispers – and I want to listen and take action before there’s a need for him to raise his voice or to get my attention in other ways.
I want to be where I belong, curled up next to his heart listening to the thump, thump, thump and knowing that, like Benjamin and Colt, I’m safe and loved.