One of my earliest memories is being rocked by my granny in her porch rocker on a stormy day in north Georgia when I was terrified by the bluster of a sudden thunderstorm rolling across the open fields.
Another warm memory is of my son as a little boy, when he would often stand before me, his little blond head drooping and his eyes teary over some calamity of childhood, and trustingly request, “Rock me a little bit, Mommy. Rock me a little bit.”
One of my favorite family photos is of my husband as a new father sprawled in our old Bentwood rocker, a befuddled look upon his weary face as he learned to cuddle and quiet our squalling infant daughter.
That rocker symbolized a place to find peace. Love. Comfort.
For me, like many of you, the past few years have brought moments when I needed comforting. When I desperately yearned more than anything to crawl up into the lap of someone that I knew loved me, whose chest I could press my face against and hear the steady ka-bump, ka-bump, ka-bump of their heartbeat slowing the racing panic of my own.
Someone I earnestly believed could make a difference.
And that someone has turned out to be Papa God (NIV translation of Abba Father).
Both my parents are gone now, and I’m too big to fit in a human lap. But not Papa God’s. His lap is as big as creation and His heart never stops beating. I have learned to run to Him in my distress. His arms are always outstretched. He settles me into His big old creaky rocking chair and softly croons “Amazing Grace” as he finger-combs my messy hair while the rhythm of the rocker calms my anxious heart.
Sometimes, we just need to turn to Him in the middle of our angst and trustingly request, “Rock me a little bit, Papa. Rock me a little bit.”
“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you,” (1 Peter 5:7).
