No one really prepares you for projectile vomit. Babies are supposed to be cute and cuddly, not pukey and putrid.
Last night Bronson threw up. A lot. Like Niagara volume out of his tiny lips. And even a trickle out of his nostrils.
The rims of his eyes reddened. He shook his face and wiggled his nose, trying to shake off the sick. His eyes watered and dulled. His stomach gurgled. By 7:00 p.m., three of his outfits reeked of vomit and were soaked through by the ordeal. Ryan and I were both branded with the stench, too.
I held him. Rubbed his tummy. Stroked his head. Ryan gave him a bath. We sat around calmly, trying to keep his stomach still, hoping the silence would suspend his sickness.
It’s not that I believe he should never experience discomfort. But puking is so pointless. And last night, I would have done anything to take away his suffering.
What could ever cause a parent to relinquish their son to a suffering situation?
It’s Advent. A season of waiting and expecting. God must have been sick over what he was about to do – giving his son to the world to experience intense suffering. 33 years after the first Christmas he would stand by and do nothing as his son begged from a cross “Why have you forsaken me?”
I’m baffled that God’s love for me is greater than parental love. So great that he gifted his own son into suffering. For my sake.
What a consequential Christmas gift.