Three a.m. finds me sitting in the rocking chair, holding my infant who is curled around my torso. His little body is relaxed, his breaths soft and quick. I could put him down and go back to bed - I need to put him down and go back to bed - but I linger, willing myself to stay awake for one more minute. I feel his warmth against my heart. The energetic pull is strong.
In these moments, at three a.m., I know that the Bible was written by men. (Men who were probably not very involved in child-rearing.) There are a few metaphors of God as a mother in the Bible, but only a very few.
The fierceness with which I love my child, with which I love (as much as one can love) the three a.m. wake-up calls, the desperate cravings I experience to be in his presence, to see his face as he discovers the world, the energetic pull that causes me to draw him to my heart over and over again - nothing could have prepared me for it.
I can only imagine that God's love for us is just as fierce, just as strong. Okay, probably stronger and fiercer. And for all the metaphors for God, I think they miss this. Or maybe it's just something we have to experience.
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