Comfort
When I think about comfort, images of my childhood often come to mind, for which I am grateful. Childhood is, ideally, a time of few responsibilities and worries, paired with what feels like all the time in the world. Presence came much more naturally then.
I decided on this week’s theme as Alice napped on my chest, her favorite place. I thought about how she must find comfort in my warmth and the familiar sound of my heartbeat. My mind instantly drifted to Tiger, my family’s very friendly, very large tabby cat who was a great source of comfort throughout my childhood.
I’d grab my “blankie” (another source of comfort) and search for him. Often, I’d find him snoozing in a patch of sunlight. I would lie down beside him, resting the full weight of my head on his belly as if he were a pillow. He wouldn’t even stir. I’d stay there, soothed by the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the purr reverberating through his body, ebbing and flowing like ocean waves.
As an adult, comfort looks different. It is not as easily accessible, often perpetually delayed, and when it does come, it may even look a little pitiful, like sneaking a bowl of ice cream after dark. These days, it feels as though I am no longer on the receiving end of comfort. I am the giver of it. I tend the boo-boos, provide the afternoon snack, respond to “Mom, watch me,” and hold a little hand until it goes limp with sleep.
Yet I have discovered that this endless giving is itself a source of comfort. In caring for others, I receive something in return: smiles, laughter, whispered “I love yous,” little caresses and kisses, and the privilege of watching my children learn and grow.
There is sacredness in this exchange. As children, we receive comfort freely; as adults, we are called to offer it. And somehow, in becoming a place of refuge for others, we find ourselves held too.
