Like a Child

I volunteered in my church's nursery this morning, or, as I affectionately (and perhaps more aptly) refer to it, "nursery duty." Funny. Nothing can take your mind off your problems like a bunch of little kids, all clamoring for your attention.

Everytime I'm in the nursery on a Sunday morning, I'm allowed to witness what I call "separation disillusionment." The baby arrives, happy in its parent's arms. Then, it is passed on to a smiling volunteer, such as myself, ready to cater to its every whims. This transaction is normal and very necessary. Does the baby think so? No. It proceeds to ruin the volunteer's ear drums, far past the damage done by her daily ipod use. All the baby knows is the utter loss of normalcy. And no, it's not about to listen to the calm reasoning of "It's ok, they'll be back."

Turns out, the effect of a limited perspective is quite detrimental - to the one misunderstanding and the one being misunderstood.

Babies are extremely dependent, needy creatures. They can do nothing on their own. Even when signs of progress are being made, such as chewing cheerios without choking or toddling around without crashing into furniture, they still must be watched constantly. Even their beds resemble prison. You can't trust them to their own devices. They don't get it yet: what life is or how extremely fragile and unprepared they are for it.

It's a frustrating job, being their caretaker for an hour every month. The leaks, the bad attitudes, the understandable narcissism. Even though you have every right to give up and walk out, you don't. Because, as strange as it may be, their little offering of love, be it in a smile, a laugh, or an earnest invitation to play with them, is impossible to refuse. And you love them back. See, you don't walk in and expect to find adults. You know they're babies, and you accept all the crap (literally and figuratively) that comes along with it.

"Have faith like a child." he says. Well, turns out I am one.