yes, mama would cry

Sometimes I worry that my four year old would throw himself over the banister if he had the opportunity. The sheer number of times that disaster is averted in a single day takes my breath away.

Although it would appear otherwise, my son is not a daredevil or a menace (as my husband fondly calls him). He is just coming to an understanding of danger, cause and effect and his place in space later than most.

Several months ago Elliott was diagnosed with a rare condition called cerebellar hypoplasia, which essentially means that he is missing part of his cerebellum. Tucked in back of our heads at the base of the skull, the cerebellum controls things likes motor function, spatial orientation, eye movements and much of our information processing.

Understanding concepts like the oven is hot so you don't want to touch it or cars drive fast so you don't want to dart into the street has not come easily for Elliott. He is not a cautious child. But he is learning.


For months we have worked with Elliott to understand that he must hold our hand when crossing the street because the cars could hurt him if he were to get hit.

"Cars hurt?" he asks me every time we cross.

"Yes," I tell him. "If a car hits you, it would hurt you."

Without fail he responds, "And mama would cry?"

"Yes," I say very seriously. "If you got hurt, mama would cry."

I am not sure when he started asking the followup question, but in the context of getting hurt, it always comes. And he always seems impressed by the fact that if anything bad happened to him, his mama would cry.


At the beach when I implore him to stay by my side in the water. At the marina when I insist on walking between him and the edge of the pier. At the farm when I pull him down from the fence as he tries to climb into the donkey pen. At home when I scold him for trying to scale the banister.

"And mama would cry?" he earnestly asks me when I explain a danger.

"Yes," I say. And he stops.

Several days ago Elliott underwent a sleep-deprived EEG. We kept him up very late and woke him up very early so he would be sufficiently tired to fall asleep naturally after having his head dotted with paste, attached to electrodes and wrapped in gauze.

In his short lifetime, Elliott has endured many tests. He's been poked and proded, scoped and scanned. But this test was different. It was awful. Elliott was terrified and although I could hold him and console him as the tech pressed the little metal disks onto his scalp, I felt helpless. I pinned his arms to his side and calmly told him he was going to be okay. The test wouldn't hurt. It would be over soon. And then I sang. I sang every song I knew. And, eventually, amazingly, my vulnerable little frightened son fell asleep. His mama cried.


I have thought about the EEG visit many times since. As much as I longed to wrap my arms around my son and tell him that I would never let anything bad happen to him, I couldn't do it. As much as wished I could tell him that he would never hurt, I knew it wouldn't be true. As much as I could have explained why this barbaric test was needed, I couldn't have made him understand. All I could do was comfort and console and tell him how very much I loved him. And when he was scared and his little heart hurt, I could cry.

Although I certainly don't claim to know the mind or ways of God, I have been struck with the idea that there is a connection here. Some believe God is all-powerful but wonder why he can't keep bad things from happening. Others believe that God simply has no interest in being involved; he is a distant superpower who lets his creation fend for itself. Still others believe God is active but arbitrary in his judgments and mercy. I am inclined to believe that God's nature toward us is like the pure love of a parent for its child.

Like a parent, God can't save us from all pain or make us understand how terrible, terrifying things might be for our own good. He can't promise us a trouble- and disaster-free life. And he can't take our place as we suffer even if he might long to. But he can comfort us and console us and wrap us in his great love. And when we hurt, he can cry. Now knowing how it feels to tenderly cradle a terrified child who trusts me so completely, I am quite sure there are many times, just like a mama, that he does.