Love Takes Time

The child's scream filled the house. Somehow, between her instruction to go upstairs and get in her pajamas and actually doing so, she had been mortally wounded. My wife and I looked at each other, silently negotiating who would go comfort this particular wound.

I volunteered.

I met the mortally wounded child halfway up the stairs. Her face round, red and puffy and her voice shaking to much to be understood. The best I could make out was that she had somehow been stabbed by her brother with the fingernail clippers after he had thrown something at her. In the past, I have asked some questions regarding this type of situation. It has always ended the same. Yes, he did it on purpose. And yes, he was trying to kill me. I didn't try that this time.

I looked at her had, where she had been "stabbed." There was, as expected, nothing discernible. No nick, no scratch, not even a red dot. Nothing. And yet, here was my daughter, completely falling apart.

So I was faced with a choice. Do I send her marching back upstairs with firm instructions to only fall apart when she is "missing a limb" or do I care for her heart, which is what truly had been mortally wounded. God reminded me of this phrase that I have been thinking about the last few days, "love takes time", and instead of sending her upstairs, I sat down on the stairs with her, put her on my lap and we talked.

I don't remember what we talked about. I doubt that she remembers the words of the conversation. What I do remember is that I loved her. And I took the time to show that to her. I asked if her mortal wound needed a kiss. It did. So I kissed that spot that was indicated; the side of her wrist.

Afterwards, she turned to me, put her arms around my neck and said, "Daddy, will you brush my teeff."

Yes, I will. Because Love takes time.