Carry Me Past the Tigers

It has finally happened. My tiny little babies who had big round heads and chubby dimpled knuckles have grown into men who are now, officially, both taller than me. Their deep voices are no longer confused for mine when answering a call, and in fact are confused for their father’s. While I recognize that they are in adult-sized clothing with shoes way bigger than my own, somehow I still think of them as little guys, my bear cubs. It’s a confusing thing in my heart, okay? Just roll with it.

With permission, I’m sharing a story from the toddlerhood of my younger one. It came to mind recently when I thought of how big they are and how easily I still remember them as truly little.

In those days, the sleeping arrangement involved a loft bed: Caleb up high in the tent-covered bunk, and Eli in a crib below. I had put them to bed a few hours before when I heard Eli whimper from their room. It quickly escalated to a mournful “Mama!” 

I was already en route, and opened the door as he took in a shuddering breath to cry out again. I reached down into the crib as this precious boy pulled himself up to standing. As I scooped him into my arms he made a request that stopped me in my tracks: 

Mama, carry me past the tigers?

Every single fiber of my mama-bear soul said yes, my boy. Of course. I got you. I’ll carry you past the tigers. 

Who knows what the late-night (8:30pm) dreams of a two year-old are? Apparently they include tigers that he just can’t get past on his own. I’m so grateful his subconscious, or maybe the Spirit who breathes over my boys, jostled him out of REM sleep enough to summon help. 

As I sat down with him in a gliding chair, wiping tears from the chubbiest cheeks, I knew I was seeing behind the curtain for a moment. There would be tigers in his life that he can’t get past on his own. Sometimes he will summon help, and sometimes it will be to me. And sometimes I’ll be able to carry him past the tigers, and sometimes I won’t. 

I am fiercely allergic to my children’s suffering. I can’t abide it. When they feel sick or sad or scared, everything in my being shifts to high alert, all of my resources diverted to alleviating their pain. I can’t rest, I can’t even breathe deeply when they hurt. In a world as broken as ours, this is a poor setup for me.

When COVID began circling the world, my bear cubs were 7 and 9 years old. The eerie unpredictability of this invisible threat took hold of some corner in my heart. Death tolls and shutdowns and inevitability choked my thoughts. I wanted nothing more than to carry my boys past the tigers, but I felt powerless to do so. For a few months, panic was always just at bay, my resting heart rate often in the 90s, my dreams full of natural disasters and the need to find shelter for my kids. 

About a year into this, I got onto a plane to take a four-day trip with friends, a spiritual retreat. Parting with my boys went against everything in me. I pulled out my journal as the wheels lifted off the ground, tears spilling onto the page as I begged God to protect my kids. Just promise me you’ll keep them safe. What if something happens to me on this trip? What if I get sick or hurt and I don’t come back to them? Would you please just promise me their safety?

No.

It’s hard to describe what it’s like to hear from God; it wasn’t an audible voice, but I heard it all the same. Getting into that is for a different blog or a different writer altogether. It’s a big thing to say I heard God but… well, I did.

No, I don’t promise you that I will keep them safe. I promise you I will always be with them.

I’m not asking for your presence, I told him. 

Brazen. Impertinent. Irreverent. But gut-wrenchingly honest, as the psalmists have discipled me to be. I went on.

I’m sorry, but your presence doesn’t feel like enough. I’m asking for you to protect them. Even as I wrote the words, I knew how absurd they were. Something can feel completely true and still be absurd. The presence of Jesus with my boys felt insufficient, felt like a concession prize. Help my unbelief, I wrote. Help me to see that this is the better promise.

That’s still a prayer I pray, to be honest.

Help me to see that your presence is the better promise.

This has become a regular refrain in hard times, especially hard times for the people I love most dearly.

I want Jesus to carry my boys past the tigers. I want Jesus to carry me past the tigers. And sometimes he does. And sometimes he doesn’t, and instead is present with us in tigerful jungles. 

May he help us to see that that’s a better promise.