Ice in My Veins (For Kat)

A friend tells this story about me:  One Sunday morning I was serving in church as the liturgist.  As I stepped up to the pulpit to read the Scripture lesson, a baby began to cry loudly from the nursery.  It was my daughter.  Everyone in the congregation knew it was my daughter; she was the only baby in the building.  From the pulpit I could see the mothers’ and grandmothers’ immediate concern, their hands flutter to their hearts.  Without hesitating or even glancing toward the side door, I proceeded with the reading.  My friend concludes that I have ice in my veins.

My friend doesn’t mean that I am heartless or indifferent to my daughter’s unhappiness.  I think she means that I am not easily upset.  In that particular instance, I knew two things:  first, that my daughter was in the care of a trustworthy nursery attendant so that I didn’t need to rush to her and two, that she was not hurt.  It was an angry cry, the kind of outburst from which babies quickly recover.  Nevertheless, I prefer a different image than ice in my veins.  I like to imagine peace flowing through my veins like a river.

Ice is hard, and, to extend the imagery, an icy landscape is barren and unwelcoming.  A flowing river suggests a pleasant meadow or woods; the river offers refreshment and invites rest.  (Just this morning I read The Lost Seal by our friend Diane McKnight to my kids.  Diane is a limnologist who studies rivers on Antarctica; she would probably imagine ice and rivers somewhat differently.)

As a parent, I do not want to have to harden my heart for battles of will, to tough out irritations or frustrations.  I want to disengage from conflicts.  (You don’t want to wear your coat in forty degree weather?  That’s okay.  You’ll live with the consequences.)  I want to rise above irritation and frustration, or drift through it.  Do I always succeed?  No.  But I try to visualize peace flowing through me, and that helps.  That’s what I wish I’d had time to say to Kat.