Like a weaned child

"Do my eyes look funny?" I asked my husband.

"No," he said.

I wasn't sure if that was a relief or not. The lids felt puffy, and when I ran my finger across them, the skin was rough. Were they red? It's hard to see your own eyelids even in a mirror.

Maybe it's just part of the aging process. Most people don't think I look as old as the calendar says I am, but after all I am... never mind.

I had already tried a couple different lotions instead of my usual eye cream. Maybe it's an allergic reaction. I stopped putting anything on the lids.

That was in Africa. I returned to North America and lingering Minnesota winter to help my daughter with her new baby. My lids still felt like they were covered with tiny scales. They itched. I caught my second daughter looking hard at them.

"It's like I'm allergic to something," I explained, "but what?" I stopped using makeup altogether.

Then it hit me. Years ago during the war in Mozambique, I used to break out in a periodic rash on my arms and legs. As time went on, the rash would spread to my chest and neck, driving me crazy with the itch. One morning after being hit with a particularly stressful situation, I woke with my face so swollen I could hardly open my eyes.

Could my swollen eyelids be caused by stress? But I had a wonderful time in Africa! I'm glad for this time with my two grandchildren. Yes, but for weeks I have been pushed just slightly beyond my comfort zone. I love talking about books and children and encouraging those who are on the ground working directly with African children at-risk. But the groups I spoke to were never suburban housewives. The setting could be be a challenge, as the echoing room at the Saturday's Cool or the long line of grannies on the shaded side of the alley. The meeting wasn't likely to start at the scheduled time and ended....? Africa is nothing if not unexpected.

Even here with my daughter, I am not home. It isn't my kitchen or my laundry. Babies and toddlers don't keep to my schedule. I must be constantly alert for how to be helpful without being an interfering mother-in-law.

This morning before anyone else was up I read from Psalm 131,
I have stilled and quieted my soul;
Like a weaned child with its mother,
Like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me.

A picture of my granddaughter curled up on her mother's lap in her penguin pajamas. She grasps the bottle of milk that she only uses at bedtime now. Her mother's arms are wrapped securely around her. She is content.

Like a weaned child with his mother is my soul within me. Let it be, Lord.