When you take care of a newborn, your world is filled with a zillion tiny sounds. You forget that between babies, I think. You expect the wailing (which if forever embedded in your memory), but it’s the squeals, grunts and coos that tickle you or grab your heart.
Right now, Brody, two months, is laying on my chest, making a sound with every breath. I’d say he’s in REM sleep, so he’s content, but not totally out. Earlier, he was fidgeting and grunting; my diagnosis was gas. Cooing? He’s chatty and sociable. Really, he doesn’t have to say words because His sounds tell the tale, and we’ve gotten to know him well enough to understand them.
I was thinking how nice it was that God gave us the ability to intuit the needs of infants when they can’t say a word, and then something hit me. So often we forge ahead on our own, broken, and with no way to articulate how we feel. We consider ourselves alone in our pain because we wouldn’t be able to explain it so anyone else would understand. We even lump God into that group, thinking we’d have to explain ourselves to Him, too, so we suffer in our silence.
But the beauty is that God understands every grunt and groan of our hearts. Even when words are impossible.
Thankfully, He doesn’t require a recognizable language because He speaks the language of the heart. He knows what you need when you need it. All you need do is cry out, then relax in His arms.
Brody is out now. No more tiny noises. Just the deep sleep of the cared for, and content.