I had just emptied the dishwasher and was bent, filling
it with plates and forks from lunch when I heard the loud crash. It happened during those few quiet moments of
contentment, when the sunlight pours through the kitchen windows and
the three boys, with sated stomachs, mingle contentedly in the living
I heard the crash and looked up and start running all in one
swift movement, plowing through the dining room and over the hip-high baby
gate without pausing, straddling it without breaking stride. Twelve-month-old Levi lay on his back underneath
the record stand which had fallen forward onto him, pinning him to the
ground. As I ran, in the split second
between kitchen and living room and holding him, I watched his older brother
swoop in and throw the table off.
Then the crying started and I scooped that baby up and pressed
him to my chest as the wails pierced my ears.
His brother started in immediately with explanations and I resisted the
urge to accuse him of causing the table to fall, resisted the urge to pin one
more child under a weight of any kind.
Levi paused in his crying and lifted his head to look at
the table, as if wondering what happened.
Convinced that nothing was broken, I started to
Like all moments of crisis, the situation bonded the kids and I as we sat together on the living room floor sharing what we saw, what
we heard, what we feared. Solomon was
buzzing from the action and bounced on the couch, talking loudly.
I was impressed by his quick thinking and said, “Good thing
his older brother was here,” finishing with words I knew he’d relish, “to
His face lit up like the sun through those kitchen windows
and I knew he’d greet his sister and father at the door with the story of how
he rescued Levi.
Later I remembered how the “Jesus Storybook” children’s bible refers to Jesus as the “Rescuer,” and it seemed to me to be an entirely
appropriate title for Jesus, for One who comes when we need him most and throws off
the pressing, crushing weight of sin that lies heavy on us all.