There is a white wooden frame on the wall in my son’s bedroom. It hangs beside the cushy pistachio rocker where I spent many a night methodically rocking back and forth to the tick-tock of the clock.
The frame surrounds a little woven nest with two brown speckled eggs resting in it. On the back, the following verse is lovingly inscribed:
Psalm 84:3- Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young—a place near your altar, Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
That little nest was my steadying whisper in the most silent of nights. To build my nest close to the altar.
I had to at first. Motherhood was everything and nothing of what I expected. I had just met this little being and the outpouring of love that immediately filled my heart to bursting capacity frightened me. It was like holding a teacup under Niagara Falls. And that made me incredibly fearful of making a mistake.
I bolted into his room every two minutes to ensure he was still breathing, each faint breathy cry sending me into a tailspin. I fussed with the thermostat, wept over coughs, and wondered how every other woman in the world had this figured out.
Needless to say, I clung to the altar with everything I had.
Eventually, I came up for air.
The days were long but as I became more at ease, I felt myself coming back. Life became a little more predictable—something I falsely attributed to my own ability.
And I let the altar drift away a little.