On Object Permanence and Our Spiritual Life
To kick off our series on insecurity, I have something incredible to share with you!! This is a guest post written by my very dear friend Sherry. I just don't think words can do justice to how much I love this woman, so I'll let you fall for her yourself.
Sherry is a beloved friend, pediatrician, and new mom. Her expertise is in advocacy, policy, and children's rights. She composed this blog post while trapped under a sleeping baby for an undisclosed period of time.
Basil is six weeks old today and as a more experienced mom-friend has told me, today is the day that I eat the mushroom and power up, Super Mario style, and become better at this mom gig. I'm a huge believer in date-setting. When I was six, I believed that at the age of seven I would learn to whistle. And when I woke up on my seventh birthday, I did just that. So today is my power-up day. I don't feel any wiser, but I have been thinking a lot about object permanence when he cries.He isn't excessive, but the soft little "pardon-the-intrusion-ma'am-I-think-I-have-a-wet-nappy" cry we brought him home from the hospital with has evolved into… well, a "I-have-a-wet-nappy" cry. Or a "I-need-comfort" cry, or a "I'm-not-sure-what-I need" cry. It's still a sweet sound to me, but very little gets done around the house if I'm not in the same room with him.Compounding the fact that he was born with 20/200 vision, and functionally sees very little, is the even more important reality that he does not yet have object permanence. Meaning, when I leave the room, for Basil, I cease to exist. So not only is he in a strange new place that is often cold with alien sounds and smells instead of his warm womb-cocoon, but now the heartbeat he was used to hearing is gone and his milk supply keeps disappearing erratically with no hope of return.So he cries, with a sort of hopelessness that breaks my heart. I tell him "Basil, I feed you, love. I always feed you. Why do you cry?" as though experience should be enough to reassure him that I'll always pick him up and comfort him and provide for his needs. But I forget that to him, the situation really does feel hopeless, and in that light, I would cry too, truth be told.And I do, I think. I do this to God, and have continued to do this to God, as far as back as my memory serves me. He does something to show me that He is in my life, is present and working, and I’m mollified for a season, until I need something or I’ve made a mess, and then I make a fuss at Him because since I can't see Him, He cannot possibly continue to exist.In a few short months, around the time peek-a-boo becomes less fun because he's figured it out, Basil will have the cognitive ability to understand that even when he can't see me, I still exist. In the meantime, he'll continue to break my heart with his crying as though I’ve betrayed him every time I leave the room.And I’ll keep wondering how God manages His heart, after all these years, with me. How He manages to keep coming around the corner and quieting my plaintive cries every time I forget that while not imminently visible, He still upholds the Universe, still cleans my messes, still provides my milk.
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