As I went down the wooden snowy steps, I held the rough fence with one hand, held my crying daughter Kelly with the other and made my way into the yard. I knew everything would be okay if I located my mother.
Instead of a smile, she greeted me with concern. I knew she had read my face as I'd approached. "What's wrong?" she asked.
I held the baby out. "I can't take care of this baby," I said simply. My mother didn't take her from my arms as I expected. She smiled slightly, and then replied firmly, "You have to take care of that baby." This was not the reply I wanted. Couldn't she hear the baby crying? I wanted her to fix this problem. Instead, she took off her gloves and asked me in for some coffee.
Mom held Kelly while I held the coffee cup. At that moment the baby finally stopped crying. I glanced over at Kelly, content in my mother's arms. Her tiny blue eyes were fixed on me, as if to ask, "What's the problem here, Mama?" Her sweet, familiar breath eased the stress in the air. I looked at my mother, feeling foolish but relieved. She stood and placed an arm around my shoulders. "By the time you came along, things were quite the opposite for me. But with your elder brother, you can bet that I often felt helpless."
The baby showed no signs of our afternoon struggle, while my own hair remained damp and messy from sweat and worry. "Crying is the only way babies have to communicate. Try to listen to her cries and hear them as language. She's not crying to annoy you; she's trying to send a message with the only voice she has."
Once again, her gentle guidance had supported me through a storm and back into clear skies.