Rocking . . .

Last night/ early this morning as I sat in Ella's nursery, rocking and rocking, and desperately hoping that the action would be sufficient enough to lull my daughter into slumber, it struck me that perhaps the action was more for my benefit than her's. And then of course my mind wandered and I started to wonder why the act of rocking was so elemental—so satisfying and comforting at a soul level.

How many times, and for how many different reasons have I rocked? In anguish I have rocked, my body swaying on its own accord when tears are not enough . . . to comfort my babies when they were tired, sad, hurt, or simply in need of moment with Mommy . . . I have rocked, dancing in the kitchen with my husband as our favorite song echoed in the floor boards beneath our feet . . . I have rocked in mirth as my body shook in laughter so hard that it was silent . . .

Did God rock on the day His children fell, and does He still? Did Eve rock, holding herself together as she looked back on the closed Garden Gate? Did she rock her babies on the other side of it? Did her daughters learn from her. . . and I from them? Do we sway out of habit or out of necessity? My husband rocks too, his body swaying as either Caleb or Ella are comforted in his arms, and so I know it is not strictly a thing of the feminine heart. Even now as I type this, (one-handed), I am swaying in my chair as Ella watches me from the crook of my left arm, nearly asleep. I know she too will rock.

Regardless of the purpose or the origins, the very act, this sway, makes me very human, and connects me tightly to those around me—in sorrow, to comfort, or in mirth. And that's kind of a nice thing to know—especially at 1am, when my daughter won't sleep—that someone else, somewhere, is rocking too. . .