I’m borrowing from a famously ill-advised literary device that means “God in the machine”. It’s when storytellers run out of logical ideas to save the day and come up with a magical solution out of the blue, like Superman (II) finding a green crystal lying in the rubble of his fortress that will give him his superpowers back after he supposedly gave them up forever.
However, I think God in Mother Love is not so far-fetched. Since I’m thinking about kids and family this month, I have to say I think being a parent is one of the greatest means of understanding part of the unknowable nature of God, as many people think of Him.
When they’re born, empirically speaking, babies offer nothing but work, lack of sleep, and frustration. They have earned nothing, and yet we are eager and delighted to cater to and nurture them 24 hours a day.
We are stunned and fascinated and brought to tears simply staring into their little faces. I would instinctively throw myself in front of a bus on fire to save him from suffering, simply because he lives, and he is mine.
The mere idea that I made a whole person in my own body is the craziest notion, and yet we all have the equipment to do so.
Even on his worst day, I still love him and can’t wait until he’s happy again. I have been shamefully able to stay mad and hold a grudge against practically every other human being I know, except this little person who isn’t thanking me or helping me and is mad at me because he didn’t get a second bowl of goldfish crackers. I want to squeeze him and kiss him even while he’s muttering about me behind a slammed door. I’m only sad when he acts like he doesn’t love me.
I go to smelly circuses, massively expensive parks, and ridiculous animated movies just to enjoy his happiness. There is nothing more satisfying than his laughter and knowing I found a thing or created an experience for him to enjoy. Although I may roll my eyes when I realize it was just for five more minutes.
After a few years of mothering, I often feel the need to apologize to my own mother. I can’t imagine my son will ever know the depth of feelings I have for him and I don’t think he could reciprocate it entirely. Maybe because I chose, and went to a lot of medical effort, to make him and took it upon myself to be responsible for his very survival.
It’s by design, I suppose; you pretty much have to love something in tidal waves to continue to do that kind of work. All the jokes about moms being teachers, maids, counselors, cooks, chauffeurs… it’s all true, and you do it because they must be safe and fed and happy. If we didn’t love them with such wild abandon, we’d never have changed the second diaper.
On the flip side, as a daughter, my whole goal was to grow up and get away from my parents. If I did love them as much as they loved me, I’d never have left. Maybe that’s why moms and dads are the ones crying in the commercials where the kids drive away in the new car, or close the dorm room door.
My mom still tries to mother me and it’s annoying because I am surviving just fine without her help. I used to wonder why she still tries so hard. I know now that she still loves the baby that needed her, and the little girl that idolized her. I know that because I often look at my own little boy and grieve a little for that tiny person who is no more. The one I could hold in my arms when he smelled good and I was the glowing center of his universe. When he is 50 years old, I will still time-travel-love the two-year old who laughed when I fake-sneezed. Aaaaand now I’ve made myself cry.
All that to say, imagine a Supreme Being who multiplies that feeling by all 160 billion people who have lived on this Earth. That’s a lot of love. Much like a dog that will never learn calculus, I’ll never truly understand God, but I’m thankful to have a 12-year old sliver of Him in my house.