“Abba. Abba. Abba.”

Jude keeps saying Abba. All the time Abba. While he’s playing with his blocks. While he’s eating his Toastie O’s. While he’s riding in his car seat. Even as he drifts to sleep.

I know he doesn’t know what he’s saying, what his baby talk means. But there’s something in it and it is not wasted on me.

“Whoever becomes simple and elemental again. like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom.”
- Gospel of Matthew 18:4 (The Message)

Who is that little girl?, I think as I pull out the 28-year-old snapshot I carry in my journal. Legs folded Indian-style. Hands grasping her ankles. Face set in an unapologetic expression. She would not be moved from the roof of the brown truck. She had climbed. Scaled the back bumper. Soldiered through the bed. Conquered the rear window. She had reached her destination.

And she would not be moved. She would not deny who she was or what she had done. She would not ask permission first, but charge ahead, unrelenting, full-boar. She would ask forgiveness later (if pressed). But there was nothing to forgive. She was only being herself. Her tenacious, curious, undiluted self. She was only doing what a confident, inspired, spirited little girl would do.

Was it dangerous?

Sure.

Was it risky?

You bet.

But safety, comfort, static-ness – they were overrated.

As I think about my son and my role as his mother, I am decided. I must find the value of risk again. Risking the climb, risking the fall, risking what people might think of me. Because Jude needs that kind of mom. A mom who plays hard and loves harder – no matter the heights to fall.

Yes, if I am to care for Jude in the best way possible, that little girl needs to emerge again. Because she’s still there. I know she is. And she needs to come out to play. And climb, climb, climb the hard places beside him.

“Looks like they forgot your guacamole. I’ll get that for you.”

I recognized the voice instantly. I had seen him coming with our tray of food, but thought if I looked away really quickly it wouldn’t be him. I just wanted to pretend I didn’t know him. So I did. I kept my head turned toward Jude as he came back with my ramekin of guac.

I walked into the brick building in the industrial park, unsure if I even had the right place. As a warm breeze swept through the wisps of Jude’s blond hair, carrying with it hope and relief, I breathed in. We have been putting life on hold in so many ways since Jude was born. I suppose that’s what happens when a child – especially your first – comes along. But something in the air seemed about to change.

Remember – the root word of humble and human is the same: humus: earth. We are dust. We are created; it is God who made us and not we ourselves.
Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

As I inhaled and exhaled in concert with the Ashtanga Yoga poses I attempted, I felt it. Felt it toe-tip to scalp. Felt it in my bones and in my soul. It reminded me of the mist that fell on us and the Yountville appellation each morning we spent in Napa. It was a refreshing. A re-birthing. A glimpse of wholeness.