I walked, with daughter in hand, to the door of our church nursery. Immediately, she wiggled from my arms and motioned to go inside. I opened the door and put her down. She wobbled as she walked quickly to the nearest toy.
Lost in the mystery of a small purple teacup, it seemed like she no longer noticed me there. She headed towards the back of the room, finding more colorful toys to play with.
I casually spoke with the nursery volunteers, waiting for the attention to turn back towards me. But it never did — until I turned to leave the room. That’s when she called out to me, with arms stretched wide into the air above her head. I lowered my voice to a whisper and assured her that I would return. As I backed away from that nursery door and rounded the corner, the yelling subsided and she was fine. Still, the moment I returned, she dropped everything in her hands and toddled toward me. And as I lifted her, she latched onto my neck, giving me the biggest hug ever.
That moment was so sweet. And I think it happened because deep down she knows she needs me and wants to know I’m watching over her, looking out for her.
I was reminded of that while I cradled my little girl after a crying fit that kept her up way too late that night. When I walked into her room, I saw the same little out-stretched arms. Only this time, they were wet with tears. So I held her. She closed her eyes. And there, with a tear-dampened cheek on my chest, she found rest.