Enough Love for Both of Us

The Whirley-Pop was heating up pretty quickly. We were looking forward to an evening of feasting on mouth-watering popcorn. A friend was over for the evening.

There is little else more satisfying than fellowship with good friends, and handfuls of good food.

That's when I heard the wailing and awaited the tears.

Our daughter, Elizabeth, had awoken from her nap in the usual way: unhappy. But I was stuck at the stove, steadily cranking away, the tension building in the simmering, swirling kernels . . . and in my sobbing daughter.

"Elizabeth, honey, I'm here in the kitchen," I called out. It did no good. Her misery was deepening, digging in. Her cries were ever louder and more insistent. I think she thought that I would come to her if she just cranked up her volume. But I had my task at hand . . . literally. I kept cranking away at the popcorn. "Come in here, Elizabeth. Would you like some popcorn?"

I had hoped that enticing her might help.

It didn't . . . at all.

The kernels now were sizzling in the oil. Soon it'd be a Fourth-of-July in the Whirley-Pop.

Elizabeth's volume decreased and yet grew closer. She had slipped out of her bed and was stumbling her way down the hallway toward the kitchen.

I could hear her but couldn't yet see her. "Hey, honey, I'm making some popcorn. Would you like some popcorn?" I asked, softening my voice, hoping somehow to break through the fog of her sniffling and her tired eyes.

As she came into the dining room and rounded the corner into the kitchen, she went directly for my legs. Her two-year-old stature meant she came to just above my knee. She grabbed my leg, grasping at my trousers, whining ever louder, pleading to be picked up and held.

"I can't hold you just now. I'm making popcorn," I mildly protested, trying to sound joyful. "Would you like some popcorn?" She responded with whimpers, grasping at my trousers, again begging to be picked up and held.

By now the popcorn was in full explosive bloom. I had to have a constant and consistent crank to keep it from turning into inedible ashes. I didn't want that to happen again! Steady, steadily, turning the handle . . . anxious for the popping, and Elizabeth's sobbing, to end.

I wanted to pick her up. I love holding her. I just couldn't comfort her at that exact moment.

She clung to my leg, sniffling back her tears as the frenzied festival on the stove continued. I cranked the handle as steadily as I could, becoming ever more anxious and less patient with every turn, just wanting it to end.

Then the top metal flaps of the Whirley-Pop began to move, a sure sign that the container was nearing its capacity. The pops became less and less frequent. I turned off the burner and lifted it over to pour out the feast into a large bowl.

I struggled to keep my balance as Elizabeth clung to my leg. Just managing to get most of the popcorn into the bowl, I set down the Whirley-Pop and stooped to Elizabeth.

"Hey, honey, what's wrong?" I asked softly, my hands cupping her cheeks.

Sniffling and wiping her face, she was battling a desire for emotional retreat. Or was it to be another surge? Her eyes were turned downward. She resisted looking at me.

"Oh, Elizabeth. Would you like some popcorn?" I asked, knowing full well that it was one of her favorites.

"Huh uh," she grunted.

"You don't want any popcorn? But you like it so much," I pleaded.

"Huh uh!" she moistly grunted again.

She wasn't quite defiant; she was just tired and upset, and longing for something.

I ran my fingers through her hair and lightly caressed her face. "Oh, Elizabeth, what's wrong sweetie? Did you not have a good nap?"

She sniffled and rubbed her eyes, almost tumbling back over the emotional edge into full-scale weeping again.

I caressed her forehead with my thumb. "Hey, hey, there's no need for that. I'm here. What's wrong?"

Then she breathed a relaxing post-sob inhale. You know, the kind that sounds like you're about to inhale your bottom lip . . . with a rhythm. That is a moment to cherish. If only it could be bottled. It is a moment of resolution, when misery surrenders and you're ready for full-scale embrace and, well . . . and some popcorn.

"Oh, sweetie," I soothingly spoke. "Are you alright?"

There was a bit of a pause. She then glanced upward.

"I . . . I . . . just don't have any love," she exhaled, again nearly teetering off the emotional precipice. 

I quickly and firmly drew her into my arms, squeezing her just enough, holding her back from that miserable chasm. I held her with all my affection.

"That's alright, honey, I have enough love for both of us."

Silent, surrendered satisfaction ensued.

• • • • • • • • • •

That was Friday night. We enjoyed our time with our dear friend. If I recall, at the time, Angela was pregnant with our second daughter, Katherine. On Sunday night I got an email from Jennifer. She wrote, "Hey, I just wanted you to know that what you said to Elizabeth really spoke to my heart. I think it revealed the heart of our Father. I know that sometimes I just don't have any love and yet God has enough for both of us. Thanks!"

I didn't really think of it at the time. The words were just there.

I suppose God was just there as well. I'm quite certain of it.

As one great sage has written, we love God because he first loved us. How about you?