The Passions of Parenting

Yesterday, P and I had what I'd like to call a "Mayberry moment," when for a brief time we operated under the delusion that the worst thing that could ever happen in our town would be Don Knotts locking himself in the jail cell again.

We were at Central Market, and we'd encouraged Luke to go ahead and play his heart out on the playscape while the Eaters of the family (P, Sarah, and myself) had lunch nearby. The patio was quite busy, but we managed to find a shaded table within sight of the play area, and P and I were quickly in conversation - checking every few minutes for the flash of white hair on the playground.

And you know what happened next.

"Can you see Luke?"
"No... are you sure he's not on the other side of the slide?"
"I don't know. I'll go check."

I watched from my seat as P circled the first play structure, but as he rounded the second structure, I rose from my chair, as if a better view would make my child appear from thin air.

P made eye contact with me and his face was blank, but he shook his head. I felt my insides begin to churn, and I knew my face was anything but blank.

He began speaking to people at nearby tables, and I circled around in place, searching frantically with my eyes and vaguely remembering that I couldn't leave the table where my other child was still seated - even though everything within me desired to sprint away in search of my firstborn.

In that moment, mixed with the fear and the self-condemnation, I felt such an anger as I'd never known before. I knew Luke wouldn't wander far on his own. And that leaves only the explanation that someone took him.

Took him.

I'd rip that person's heart out. He's MINE. You have no right to him, I silently screamed to this imagined figure.

Fortunately, my fears were far from justified. In what was, I'm sure, a very brief time, a kind woman approached me and explained that her mother had found Luke and brought him inside so they could page us. "She's a preschool teacher," she explained, "and she saw him and was worried."

I almost did abandon Sarah at that point, but P appeared close at hand within seconds, and I rushed inside; Luke saw me and pushed through a crowd of adults and CM staff to rush into my arms.

Relief. Thankfulness. Joy. Man, I love that kid. I was so grateful that the worst that could happen hadn't happened.

Needless to say, we stayed close by him the rest of the afternoon. He was shaken up enough by the whole ordeal to sit and eat his whole lunch quietly until P had to leave. Then the three of us all went to the playground - this time together.

My dad reminded me recently that our love for our children is merely a shadow of the great love that the Father has for us. As I reflect on this experience, I wonder about that anger I felt when I imagined the possibility that someone had stolen my child. Is that a reflection of how our Father feels about us as well? Does He churn with furious passion when His precious ones are stolen away... by the world, by the fallen, by the Prince of Darkness? I'm sure He must.

I know I'm not the first parent to lose track of a child in a public place - I have plenty of memories of searching for my own mom in the supermarket when I was little! And P tells me that he wasn't really worried at the time ("I knew you'd be worrying enough for both of us," he says), but I'm thankful for the experience. I hope I've taken away from it a deeper insight into the Lord's care for us.

(And perhaps a reminder that it's probably not a good idea to leave my two-year-old unsupervised at the playground.)