You got me?

One of the first times I remember hearing it was while our family was walking through a forest thick with trees several months ago.  As she plodded along the uneven ground, I grasped her small hand in mine to help steady her.

"You got me, Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie, I got you."

With every unbalanced step thereafter, my hand would clutch hers more tightly to add support and stability to her tread and she would repeat her inquiry, "You got me, Mommy?  You got me?"

This sweet and simple question has passed through my little Carys' lips quite often in the past several months.

When feelings of fear or sadness engulf her, she runs to my arms eager for an embrace.  "You got me, Mommy?"  Yes, I've got you.

When we are restoring our relationship, disrupted by disobedience and disrespect and I look into her tearful, remorseful eyes and deliver a hug.  "You got me, Mommy?"  Yes, I've got you.

When we play hard wrestling and tickling and squealing with laughter... I throw her into the air and catch her as she falls back into my arms.  She declares me to be "so strong" and then asks, "You got me, Mommy?"  Yes, my love, I've got you.

When her impulsive and explosive emotions are too much for her 2 yr. old self to handle, I often need to hold her tightly and securely in my arms as she wails away, thrashing about.  When she finally calms, her breaths quivering with each inhalation and her body relaxes, she asks, "You got me, Mommy?"  Always, my daughter, I've got you.

When I pull her out of the warm, sudsy bath water and wrap a towel around her, swinging her into my arms and calling her a burrito, "You got me, Mommy?"  Yes, little burrito, I've got you!

Such a question does something deep within my soul, reminding me of why I was created and what God has purposed for my life.  I am her mommy.  God's beautiful, redemptive story in her life has allowed me to be the one to hold her, hug her, help her, calm her, comfort her, heal past hurts.  I get to be used in such a way, though I did nothing to deserve such a blessing.  I am privileged to be her place of comfort, safety and security as she needs to be "gotten" again and again.

And the beauty of such a privileged role is revealed when frustration or pain or inadequacies overwhelm me and tears fall from my own eyes as I cry out for God's strength and help.  Chubby little arms surround me, soft hands pat my back and stroke my hair, "I gotchoo, Mommy.  I gotchoo."