When the twins were first born they both fit in one single stroller and routinely fell asleep tangled together.
They sit side-by-side on the paper covered exam table, ready for their annual pediatric well-visit. Clothed only in their Super Hero
tightie-whities, they’re “skin-skin-skin” everywhere. Impossibly long legs dangle, long arms stretch, and bright
little-boys faces gone round and full again in a growth spurt, shine. They’re barrel chested, broad shouldered
men-in-the-making at four-years-old.
Levi asks about the narrow extension at the head of the table. “Is it for your head when you lay down? Will it hold me up?”
“It’s the plank,” I say, invoking the image of a pirate
ship. “If you’re bad the Doctor makes
you walk it.”
His face shines with delighted disbelief.
“Is that true?” he demands.
When the doctor comes in she begins by asking them questions
and they jostle and jockey between themselves to be the first to reply, the one
to give the most detailed answer. Part way
through the questions Levi pipes up out of turn.
“Wait! If she’s just
talking to us, why do we have our pants off!”
My husband and I laugh, he’s right. The doctor assures them an exam will follow.
While they talk the boys, first seated at
separate ends of the table so the nurse would be sure not to confuse them, shift
closer together. Levi skootches the length of the paper sheet
until he’s snuggled in at Isaiah’s side, nearly knocking his brother off the
table. Half-naked they huddle there,
skin to skin intuitively finding comfort in each other in the midst of their
Watching, I am reminded it has always been this way.
First home from the hospital (and for months to come) we
laid the twins to sleep together in a bassinet or crib. Unable to roll, to move really at all, like
every newborn, we were careful to place them swaddled a foot or so apart, worried
they would somehow suffocate each other.
Returning to check on them in the night, though, we almost always found
them tucked close together, their heads turned into the familiar scent and
warmth of the other. Unable to move
hardly at all, unable really even to see, they each somehow shifted until
their faces touched, their warm, milk-scented baby breath mingled
This morning I am sitting with the wonder of these boys, the way they allow vulnerability to draw them closer together rather than push them apart. In the wake of this weekend’s terrorist attacks, in the light of so much fear and struggling world round and in our very own hearts, I am left with some simple questions . . .
What will I do with my vulnerability?
What will we do with our vulnerability?
Will we allow it to draw us closer together or push us further apart?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.