Hold

Beads of sweat lined up across her forehead causing wayward strands of hair to matte her cherry red cheeks. With her fists balled, her eyes shooting darts of fury, and her nostrils flaring, my daughter released a deep rage through piercing screams. Still a toddler, she had mastered the skill of tantrum throwing several months before her third birthday.



Standing in front of my little girl at that moment I inwardly wrestled with my own sadness and anger, which were mixed with feelings of inadequacy. I felt clueless, helpless, and useless. My child had been lingering in that state of wrath for more than thirty minutes...nothing I tried diffused the situation. Ignoring the fit proved futile as did sending her to her room until she calmed down. Issuing consequences only intensified her wails.



I tried every iota of parenting advice I had ever read or heard. It was time to listen to my heart.




Without a word I sat on the floor just inches from my daughter. Firmly gripping her shoulders I pulled her into my arms and I held her tightly while rocking back and forth.



At first, she flailed forcefully trying to escape my embrace.



“No Mommy,” she yelled. “No! I'm mad, mad, mad! I don't want to hug you Mommy. I'm mad. I'm mad. I'm mad!” In another attempt to break free she bent her knees and with all the might encompassed in her thirty pound body, she pushed her hands against my stomach and, for good measure, bellowed, “Let go of me right now!”



I didn't let go. Steadied by a calm I am certain was a grace gifted by God, I held my daughter close and gently pressed my lips on her wet head. Then I whispered into her ear.



“Shhhh. Get control. I know you can do it. I know you are angry, but I know you can get control. Shhhh. Mommy loves you. Let me help you. Let me love you.”



After another minute of squirming, she stopped screaming. She stopped fighting me. Her body went limp from exhaustion and her breathing was loud and heavy. Still, I kept her in my arms and continued giving her gentle kisses until she fell asleep.


At least two years have passed. Thankfully, my sweet Pumpkindoodle no longer throws temper tantrums of such caliber. But that memory remains fresh. Honestly...I hope it never fades away.



It isn't because I want to hold on to a memory that is often missing from baby books. It isn't to garner praise for my mothering technique that saved the day and my sanity. What I never want to forget is recognizing a bit of myself in that raging toddler.



Sometimes the injustices of this world overwhelm me. Times when I rebel. Times when I vent my frustration and rail in anger. Times when I grit my teeth and think "I'm so mad, mad, mad I could spit!" There are times when I cannot see past what I want and what I cannot have.



There are times when my Father enters to comfort me and I push Him away. There are times when I refuse to open my Bible. There are times when I lose my breath , choke on my sobs, and scream “No!”



During those times, even when I'm at my ugliest, God doesn't let go. He stays close, and He teaches me how to regain control...how to be still...and how to allow myself to be loved.