They Were Right.

All those people that said having children teaches you to pray harder. They were dead on. I think it has to do with realizing my COMPLETE incapability of knowing what in the world to do minute by minute with James.

Since about week 3, James' lower gas has been the enemy of our household. The silent (sometimes) evildoer that has come to try to ruin our first sweet weeks with him. His poor belly cramps up, hard as a rock, and he cries out in obvious pain. In everything I've read, this is all very common. Not normal, but common, and usually clears up by 3 months of age. I try not to get all bent out of shape about it, although thats not always easy. James still sleeps well at night and is eating just fine. His little intestines are just learning to digest. Jim has also become a professional "fart aerobics instructor" and has discovered a myriad of ways to help James expel the demons... to his absolute glee, as I'm sure you can imagine.

Anyway, back to my point. When the intestinal incubus struck a few nights ago at about 4:16 am, I found myself praying like I've never prayed before. No amount of rocking, walking, bouncing, rolling, singing, massaging, etc. was consoling our tiny son. I found myself screaming in my head, "Lord please fix his belly! It's hurts him so much! Please!" (In a tone of how have you not seen that he's in pain?!) It's usually right at that point of climax when dear, wonderful Prince Husband comes in and takes a turn soothing. Jim is quite the baby whisperer and the awful, unbearable, what-felt-like-an-eternal belly bout was soon over.

And that's just it. That's normally when I pray the most - when I'm right in the thick of things and I "need your RIGHT NOW, God!". I'm only very slowly learning to pray quietly, throughout the day for, not only my son's belly, but for his soul, mind, and future. It hurts me that I pray more for his gas than I do for his heart. C'mon, Sara...

In the quiet of this morning, I sat reading on the couch while Jim soothed James to sleep for his morning nap. The hardwood creaked in the same places as Jim methodically walked around the center of our house, singing softly. It wasn't long before I was in tears, realizing that James was fast asleep (like arms-hanging-limp, mouth-hanging-open asleep), safe in his daddy's strong arms.

And that's just it. I wrote a post when I was pregnant asking God to grant me the grace to daily put James back into His arms. I'm still pleading for that. And trusting, little by little, that it will come. I want to learn not only to pray harder, but to pray better.

(P.S. We've employed Mylicon and gripe water, to little avail - just FYI.)